


catch-as-catch-can

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Plug, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink/BDSM (mentioned), M/M, Mature Competent Highly Unprofessional Gays, Multi, New Relationship, PWP, Polyamory Negotiations, Premature Ejaculation, Threesome - M/M/M, a threesome triptych of unrepentent smut, d/s dynamics, exhibitionism (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: jonah knows how to compose an infinite canon. find a melody that works. overlap. and close the loop."Catch-singing is unthinkable without a supply of liquor to hand..." (Aldrich, Henry. 1989. The Aldrich Book of Catches).





	1. squirm

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a little smutty ditty that doesn't really deserve to be a chaptered work. just a PWP triptych. expect POV shifts and porn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **catch on** _— phrasal verb with **catch** verb US /kætʃ, ketʃ/ — informal _ to finally realise or understand something; come to terms with; understand what is meant or how to do something.

Brian squirms. 

It’s a thing he does, in general. He fidgets, he rocks, he sways, he bounces, he bumps, he jostles, he fiddles, he wiggles, he springs up with profound enthusiasm into a whole-hearted flying leap. 

Well, he doesn’t do that _today_. Not that last one. 

Jonah’s really good at tamping him down, when he’s going off. They’ve been around each other _so much,_ and no matter how crazy his energy gets Jonah just absorbs it all, his temperament a thick-walled lead fallout shelter but somehow _warm_ and wonderful instead of bleak and radiation-burned. God, Brian needs it. He can melt the face off a lesser man. 

Jo’s seen him through his wildest craziest firestorms of creative inspiration, his completely unnecessary coffee-fuelled overnighters spouting random stabs of Castlevania mythology and sticking post-its all over the wall, falling asleep with fingertips on his keyboard and waking up with a blanket on him and the coffeemaker pre-programmed. 

Jo’s handled him in his frantic spirals of anxiety and angst and melodramatic messy pining, through when he gives himself hives through power of sheer will, through when he changes his clothes four times before a date-that’s-not-even-a-date, through fifteen drafts of _the perfect_ tweet that Jonah must be sick of hearing but he makes sure to open it up and _like_ it anyway, first thing.

Jo’s tolerated Brian’s absolutely insatiable thirst for the new and the wild, for throwing polka curveballs into music compositions, for weekend crafting days that end up with _two hundred_ candles, for fervent monetizing and unmarketable decision-making, for building meta-fictions and insisting on thrift-store acquisitions. 

Jonah fucking _gets_ Brian. He gets that Brian’s a needy little thing. He gets that Brian loves the world and _needs_ it to love him back, as hard and as obsessively as possible. He gets that Brian cannot be contained, but desperately needs help with self-control. 

Jonah does that for him. 

It doesn’t always take the form you might expect. 

* * *

Brian’s squirming, because he’s nervous. He’s got Gill and Gilbert today, and they’re streaming, and he’d had the idea to play Colossus while climbing on each other which was already a _stupid_ idea a week ago when he was just a crushing horny coworker whose subconscious was thirsting for ways to get his hands on Patrick Gill. But Pat never tells him his ideas are crazy. Pat never slows him down, never puts the kibosh on a bold suggestion. Even if Patrick’s literally allergic to it. 

And then because he was too guilty to put his hands on an unsuspecting crush he had the even _grander_ idea to go out and get wasted with Patrick, to rip off this bandaid with the aid of liquid courage; damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. So earlier this week he took Pat out and made drunken confessions of affection and did some frantic sloppy groping-kissing that _seemed_ well-received, but he’d been way too drunk to remember the rest and all he knows about that is he woke up in Patrick’s bed and Pat was sleeping on the couch like a perfect gentleman and has been very terrifyingly _nice_ ever since. 

And now his heart is pattering-terrified out of his chest whenever he looks at that sexy skinny dark-haired dark-eyed witchkin, that fucking hot goth nerd boy from Brian’s wet dreams, who’s got Brian’s absolutely whackadoodle crush-drunk heart wrapped around his skinny pretty fingers. 

Jonah tolerated listening to Brian opine at length about this all week. 

More than this week, of course. This _year_ Jo’s been patiently permitting the Pat-centric conversation to build, to heighten. In fact, well. Jo tends to _encourage_ that sort of thing. He likes the wildest and the worst parts of Brian—talks him into doing his goofiest accents, convinces him it’s okay to turn in the world’s craziest job application, says it’s fine if he picks up a new hobby or a new book or a new guy he met at pottery class last week who’s really into _ropes._ It’s always been like that—Jonah holding Brian close and jerking him off and breathing into his hair and murmuring _I hear you’re trying to sleep your way through everyone in acapella_ and laughing when Brian stiffens and says _not_ _everyone_ and smiling into his neck and saying _so what’s your angle of approach for Marvin, then._

Yeah, okay, so Jonah holds him back but also _eggs him on._

Which is why his teasing has recently reached a fever pitch, now that Brian’s secured a few hot whiskery kisses from his lithe and gorgeous senior coworker, and Jonah’s goading him to _seal the deal already and also, if you think of it, see if he thinks I’m hot._

“I can’t, Jo!” Brian whined in exasperation, on Tuesday. “That’s so—I can’t ask that! I don’t even know what I said to him. I don’t even know if he likes me.”

“Everyone likes you,” Jonah intoned, sagely calm, as ever. “You seen how he looks at you?”

“Pat just looks sexy at everyone, Jo, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Brian flapped and fussed, and then paused himself long enough to stop being a self-centered jerk for, like, a minute. “Have I been going on like this too long?”

“This is hour two, yeah.” Jonah smiled. 

Brian groaned and flopped hopelessly on the bed. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I thought I fixed this on Monday. I thought I got it all out there. We kissed, Jo! And I told him—and then I got too blitzed and he put me to bed like a little kid. I’m too humiliated. I’m going to die. I just need this to be over. I just need him to know.”

“I could help you, if you want.” Jonah said, in that tone. The dark one, soft with mischief

“Oh, friggin’ _please_ help me,” Brian begged. “Please, please please please.” 

“I dunno if you’re gonna like my methods,” Jonah smiled, and stroked between Brian’s legs. “But I’m pretty confident.” 

“I’ll do whatever,” Brian buckled immediately, and rocked his hips, and whined. “I need you to shut me up about this. Before I go insane. Before I drive _you_ insane. Just get this devil out of me.” 

And so Jonah, that smiling wicked thoughtful sick sonofabitch, is executing his evil plan _in absentia._

And so Brian, so anxious-horny that his ears are ringing, is squirming-sitting on the streaming couch trying not to fidget with a buttplug in his ass. 

And so Patrick is untangling the cords and checking levels on the mixer and getting everything all organized, seemingly without a care in the world. 

* * *

_Trust me,_ Jonah murmured, while Brian was clenching his hands in their sheets and begging and whining and taking it. 

_You got this_ , he messaged, when Brian was biting his lips red and swollen on the subway and texting with trembling hands. 

_Do what you want. But you know you love it,_ he murmured softly, before hanging up on Brian in the middle of the day, when he got a heart-patteringly panicked call for mercy. 

Brian does love it, is the thing. And possibly more important, Jonah loves it, loves fucking with him. And having video evidence of Brian being fucked with. And _fuck_ , he’s going to get it in spades today. 

“Can you text Jenna to see if she’s down to moderate chat?” Pat says, and it’s good that he’s fiddling with the mixer and not looking because his voice scratches down the inside of Brian and catches on every rib. It yanks a startle out of him that precipitates—well, _almost_ a squeak but not, thank god—no sound, just a fully-featured horny grimace. 

Hoo boy. This is going to be— 

“Kay,” he remembers to chirp, a beat too late and an octave too high, and the glance he gets over Pat’s shoulder is...curious. 

“You all right?” 

“Yup, right as rain, Pat Gill!” 

Oh _jeez_ he is coming into this with all the wrong energy and Pat is honestly _staring—_

“...good to go live soon?” 

Brian stops himself from answering that too quickly, at least dignifies himself with a glance around. Everything’s within arm’s reach and there’s maybe, oh, a thirty-five percent chance he’s not gonna knock it all over the floor? 

“Oh I’m good to go if you are, _old man_ —you hydrated? peed? checked your myspace?” 

Pat narrows his eyes, and Brian almost panics before he realizes it's just Pat trying not to smile. “I know we’ve been over this before, but I still can’t figure out if _old man_ is ironic, coming from you.” 

“My generation’s post-irony,” Brian declares, hoping that his grin is wide but not _manic_. “So take it however, gramps.” 

“Hmmph.” Pat’s expression slants in that way it does, when a joke knocks into something real, and that’s what makes it fucking _funny_. “We’ll see if I can pick you up without throwing out my back.” 

“ _Gasp_ , Pat Gill, are you calling me fat?” 

“I’d never.” His tone is bone dry, and his eyes are light.

“How dare you. How dare you. Just because you’re, like, Twiggy and Waluigi’s lovechild—”

“...wait, _what_ was that comparison…?”

“Skinny people, Patrick!” 

“What a compliment.” Pat’s eyes are sparkling with mirth, and Brian wants to _writhe_ with relief that he’s managing to keep up a comedic patter without dissolving into utter distraction. But that’d, like, defeat the whole damn point. So he just shrugs. Pat moves on. “Well. My skinny ass can deadlift you pretty easy, kid, so you aren’t gonna stand a chance.” 

“I’m not,” Brian moans in mock despair that almost _certainly_ sounds too fucking sincere. “It’s not fair. I can’t lift you. I can’t lift anything heavier than a can of beans. God—” he runs a hand through his hair, frizzles it, lets the familiar wash of pre-performance-failure-predicting jitters wash out the other sensations, “—oh god, I hope I don’t _drop_ you. I’m sorry in advance. For when I drop you. It won’t be on purpose. I mean. I’ll try to make sure we go down together, but—” 

“Well, don’t do _that,_ ” Pat’s tone is gentling a bit. “I’ll try and make it easy on you. Piggyback and all. You’ll be fine.” 

“I am so not going to be fine that I am already bordering on hysterical,” Brian gets out, “So we better go live before I hyperventilate.” 

“You are _awful_ keyed-up, kid,” Pat murmurs, eyeing him with amusement. “But all right. Let’s do it.”

* * *

The stream goes… 

all right, all things considered. Brian’s just really, really bad at carrying Pat but he manages to not drop him (completely) and to make it kinda funny and to only sweat embarrassingly through his shirt after the first hour which is probably respectable? 

_Being_ carried, which he’d thought would be easier, turns out to be infinitely more humiliating. First of all, Pat’s really _good_ at it, lifts Brian with ease and holds him in firm arms and doesn’t even seem perturbed by the weight. 

Second, Pat’s so fucking _cavalier_ about it that he goes all-out, trying several different ways of carrying Brian. They all work fine. For Pat.

 _His arms are sinewy-strong_ , Brian can’t help but think, as he whimpers and squeaks and shifts and tries not to push his erection _directly_ into Pat’s person. 

Pat really doesn’t seem to be fucking avoiding it, though. In point of fact, it seems like he’s _encouraging_ it, holding Brian tight to him and letting him pant and protest and wriggle right into the pointiest and hardest and sharpest parts of Pat’s whole sharp tight body. 

Brian’s breathlessly aroused before they’re even thirty minutes in, and yknow what? Pat is. Pat is definitely fucking with him. Because he keeps darting his eyes over and giving little golden smirking smiles just before they come into contact again. Fucking hell. Brian feels hot under the collar and also all over, but also desperately _relieved_ —he wasn’t—he hadn’t been—he didn’t know if Pat wanted to continue their. Their work flirt thing. Their fuckery. But it seems so, or at least it seems like Pat’s amused enough by Brian’s crush to fuck with him on video and laugh about it. Brian’s comfortable with that. 

Maybe Jo was right after all, the cocksucking bastard. Maybe this was the most surefire way for it all to come up organically... 

and _come up_ it does, because of course there’s some point where Pat’s slinging Brian over his shoulders like he’s a little baby goat, and wrapping one arm _through_ Brian’s legs, when he simply brushes— 

yknow how it is, brushing against a coworker’s asshole, all _friendly-like,_ when you’ve got them helplessly lifted on your broad shoulders— 

and the hand hesitates for only a split second, taps with interest, and Brian's dying, he’s dying, and he’s got to maintain enough decorum to _play a fucking video game_ while dying fuck fuck fuck— 

Pat doesn’t mention it, of course, or wink, or flirt, or tap again, for all the rest of the stream, although he does seem vaguely amused that Brian’s fucking falling apart. 

* * *

When they _finally_ sign off Brian can throw his sweaty head back in relief. At last. At last he doesn’t have to keep a straight face and play games and say smart things and not have a boner on camera and be around Patrick who is so _handsome_ and do it all the fuck at once, while he’s trying desperately not to squirm so hard he screams. He leaves his head tossed, hair plastered to his forehead, and breathes deep, breathes in humiliation and arousal and an inkling of hope, and he waits. 

“Good stream,” Pat says, imperturbably. He’s coiling up wires and putting them away. “Good idea. Shame you lost, though I have to say I’m looking forward to the ride.” 

“ _Fuck_ , Pat,” Brian groans. That tone of Pat’s is—taut, sweet, dark—teeth innocently piercing through a plum and letting red-purple juice dribble down his chin— 

well, either that’s real, or a that’s wild projection of Brian’s perverted brain— 

“Fuck, Pat, I’m—I’m gonna have to drink some protein shakes by Monday. Or else I’ll—I’ll probably collapse on the subway.”

It’s a pale imitation of a joke that garners no laugh. Pat just turns and raises a perfect eyebrow. “Don’t worry, you got this. You didn’t drop me. You just didn’t choose a very efficient way to pick me up.” 

Brian knows his stupid mouth is open a little, and he’s staring, but he fancies himself that maybe Pat is staring back. That maybe Pat is _looking_ at his mouth, and maybe also trying to wrangle fruit-related metaphors for how Brian's voice sounds right now. There’s no good fruit for _breathy-desperate and fucked-up_ , though. 

Banana, maybe? 

“That little side-hip thing?” Pat elaborates, gestures. That one was—not efficient, sure, but it was the first moment Brian’s heart stopped racing out of his chest, when he had Patrick on his hip (slipping wildly, far too hard to hold) and _maybe_ got a shiver out of him. “That’s no good. Try a fireman carry next time.” 

“Show me,” Brian dares, because fuck it, he’s drunk with relief at not being red-faced on stream anymore, and Patrick has been _flirting_ , and maybe Jonah was right, after all. Maybe Pat won’t go running a million miles away, once he knows what a little freak his coworker is. 

“Sure. So you just—” Pat steps his long legs delicately over, offers a hand to Brian like a gentleman soliciting a dance. Brian takes it, lets his Southern-belle-ass-self be pulled out to the open space. “Now, I’m gonna drape you over my shoulders, all right? And then, one arm through the legs, and that arm’ll grab your wrist, see?” 

He does it. Like it’s easy. 

“And now you can’t slide, even if you go limp, yknow?” 

Brian knows. Brian knows _very well_ that he is not going to go sliding off Pat’s shoulders, that he’s secure and stable and well-handled even with his feet off the ground. Pat has a good grip. He won’t let Brian fall. He might choose not to let Brian _down,_ either, which would be— 

“I don’t think I can carry you like this, Pat,” he breaks into his own thoughts. 

“Naw, you definitely could. You don’t have to be that strong. And it doesn’t matter that I’m taller.” 

“No, I mean,” Brian’s voice is breathy, and he just lets it be. “I mean on stream, uh—I don’t think it’ll be— _comfortable_ for you—” 

“Are you uncomfortable?” Pat adjusts the arm he has through Brian’s legs, all false politeness. “Just let me know.”

“No!—” Brian’s voice cracks—how much more adjusting he can stand— “not like—um—I mean I don’t think we can—we can’t _film_ it, Pat. It’s very, um. Butt-forward.” 

“Mmm, point,” Pat muses. “It'spractical, but it’s not very demure.” His free hand wanders its way up to tap Brian’s ass, very gently. “And it’s also blatantly obvious if you have an erection.” 

Brian does go limp then, because his wrist is caught and so’s his dick, and he’s ashamed and also _so so_ horny, and this is awful, the worst, and also the best possible way today could’ve gone.

“Goddammit. Fuck you, Pat.” He groans. “And fuck Jonah, too. Am I this fun, to torture?” 

“You’re _very_ fun to torture,” Pat admits, a little shyly. “I’m grateful when you let me.” 

“I’ll always let you,” Brian swears, too earnest and immediate, but he means it. But things are easier to explain, slung over Patrick’s shoulder and not looking at his beautiful face, with his body trapped betraying him and the encouragement that at least he hasn’t been thrown on the ground yet. “Fuck. I’m basically just torturing myself. I’m the one that suggested this stupid fucking stream, and I _knew_ I’d get myself all hot and bothered on camera like a gosh-darn idiot.” 

“You’re hot and bothered?” 

The tone is innocent, but the way Pat’s shoulder half-shrugs right up into Brian’s crotch is _not._

“ _Clearly_ , Pat Gill. My dick’s been hard for like half an hour, and I want to fucking kiss you again, and—” well, fuck, moment of truth, “—and when Jo heard I’d be streaming with you today and I was freaking out about how much I wanted to friggin’ touch you he _laughed_ at me.” 

“Did he.” 

Brian doesn’t know enough about Pat’s many guarded intonations to know what that one means—not without seeing his face—so fuck it, if judgment day is coming, let it be _today_ , he can’t have a goddamn repeat of Monday— 

“He did. He laughed and he tickled me and he bent me over the desk this morning and said _well let’s make sure you’re ready for anything._ ” 

Pat pauses. He’s still carrying Brian, hasn't moved much. But nonetheless it's clear he's _pausing_ , contemplating this, and oh fuck, that was definitely way too— 

Fingertips brush, ever-so-gently, at his ass, find the flared base of plastic through his pants. Pat’s not prodding hard, just faintly touching. “Is that what this is about,” he whispers softly, and with how Brian is twisted about the breath feels louder than the words. 

Brian whimpers. The touch is gentle, but it promises so much _more,_ and he can’t do anything but hang, limp and humiliated and pathetically hopeful. “Yeah, and if it’s too fucking weird that I’m—that he made me—that you—I can’t even friggin’ _talk_ , Patrick, so just throw me on the floor and tell me you never wanna see me again and I’ll crawl in a hole forever.” 

Pat doesn’t respond to this, though. Not with horror or apologies or reassurances at all. He just thumbs at the plug, pushes it a little. Brian _moans._

“Oh—God—please—Pat, _please_ —” he’s begging openly now. “Please don’t fuck with me unless you want to _fuck with me,_ all right? Jo always thinks—he thinks—I’m best when I’m in over my head—” 

“Sounds like he knows you,” Pat murmurs in a way that makes Brian shudder. He’s teasing, letting up and pressing harder, exploring with cautious fingers. “So where do I fit in.” 

“Wherever you want,” Brian gasps out, and _that’s_ definitely the sluttiest thing he’s said considering the context, but all the blood is rushing to—well, his head, but also—and he’s clutching Pat’s shirt and trying to remember how breathing works when half of you is upside down and the other half is _fucking desperate._ “If you want. It’s cool if—if this—is not your thing—I know not everyone’s into—poly—or open relationships—or fucking coworkers—or topping—or _men_ —or _me_ —”

“I gotta say, kid,” Pat hoists him up a bit further, adjusts his shoulders. “Uh, I think we’ve sorted out most of those this week, right? But the, uh. The open thing is. New to me. I kinda want to—” he hesitates. “To talk about it, before I jump in.” 

“Very reasonable,” Brian squeaks, and tries not to sound disappointed, and also tries not to _grind_ anything into anything that would be untoward. He’s better at getting brushed off, usually, he’s hit on people enough that he’s a _pro_ at it, but usually he’s god his feet on the motherfucking _ground._ “We can dismiss and reconvene—” 

“But,” Pat breaks in, beautifully, wonderfully, perfect. “I’m kind, uh, also dying here. Knowing that you’re fucking— _ready_ for me— _fuck,_ Brian—does Jonah really—?”

“J-Jonah likes it,” Brian admits, breath stuttering over his teeth with impatient need. “He likes to t-turn me inside out, to get me in trouble. He likes to watch people fuck with me.” He pauses. “Or fuck me. He’s—” Brian whimpers. “he’s gonna make me tell him what happened. No matter whether you flip out and yell at me for being a gross horny freak, or whether you dick me down into this couch, he’s gonna make me tell him _everything._ Probably on my knees.” 

Pat hisses out a long low breath and moves, then. He rather carefully deposits Brian onto the couch—Brian squirms to sit as best he can, and stares down at his hands, because Pat’s face could look like a lot of things, and he doesn’t want to bear facing it. 

“You know I don’t know Jonah very well,” Pat says directly, and Brian nods to his fingers. He feels like a child getting a talking-to for acting out, and the problem is that’s a _fucking turn-on for him okay_. “So you gonna have to tell me, and I’m gonna have to trust you. Which one, do you think he’s rooting for?” 

“Huh?” Brian looks up, sharply, a little confused, and catches Pat’s face dark and wicked-smiling _._

“Yell at you or dick you down, I think were my options.” 

Brian feels his breath in every single muscle of his chest. “He usually votes for dick,” he whispers upward. “Though he might like to see some yelling, too. We um. We do that.” 

Pat reaches down and tips Brian’s chin up. “Hmm. You do that.” 

“Yessir,” Brian closes his eyes and dares. He’s rewarded with a thumb sliding over his lips, and that’s such a fucking blessing, because he knows what to do with that. 

“ _Sir._ Jesus,” Pat swears, as his thumb is drawn into Brian’s impatient mouth. “You’re a fucking eager beaver, aren’t you.” 

“It’s Jonah’s fault,” Brian whines around his thumb. Patrick pulls the digit out, but when he peeks an eye open Brian guesses it's not for lack of interest. “He's an asshole. For working me up. He thinks it’s funny. He thinks you’re cute. He thinks you like me.” 

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” Pat muses, smiling, and presses the finger in again, deeper this time. 

Brian pulls away and pouts. “Patrick Gill I am letting you _fuck my mouth_ with your fingers, do not _dare_ tell me you don’t like me.” 

Pat has the decency to look a bit contrite. “I like you. I like you a _lot_ , Gilbert. I want to fuck the daylights out of you. I’d just, um—” he hesitates, looks left and right. “Rather not do it on a work couch, all right? But the longer I stay near you, the more that resolve is ebbing.” 

Brian smirks. That’s more like it. He pulls the hand back to his face, but Pat’s still hesitating. 

“And then I was like, I can take him back to my place and, as mentioned, fuck the goddamn daylights out of him—” 

ooh, better and better— 

“But maybe that’s rude to Jonah? But I hardly can invite myself over like, hello, can I fuck your boyfriend on your bed—” 

definitely could, definitely could, but Brian’s busy sucking prettily and trying to see if he can work a bit more on that resolve… 

“So maybe the etiquette is to like, ask him to join in, and I’m not sure if I can like— _handle_ him being there—I mean, I don’t know—I’ve only met the guy _twice,_ Brian, and I’ve never—” He pauses, shoulders hunch a bit. The expression Pat’s making—like he’s wrestling with anxiety and desire and confusion and awkwardness and hope and nerves—it’s not a _happy_ expression, but it makes Brian’s heart beat fast and hot with relief anyway. Because it means Pat’s working himself up. Because it means Pat _wants_ this enough to overthink it. 

Pat’s wrestling with worry. He’s worried he’s gonna fuck this up. And worry shows you care. 

He’s still talking, halting, hovering uncertainly, touching Brian’s face and looking for all the world like a kid trying to resist a scoop of ice cream. 

“Brian, I’ve—I’ve never been in a threesome before? And I don’t know what’s expected. Can you—” he pauses. “Can you just tell me what to do?” 

“ _Kiss_ me,” Brian squirms and points his chin up eagerly, “and then we’ll figure it out.”


	2. wrestle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **catch-as-catch-can** /ˌkaCHəzˌkaCHˈkan/ noun - ARCHAIC.  
> 1\. wrestling in which all holds are permitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you like any of the plot beats that's down to **spacegirl** , they had all the good ideas for chapters 2 and 3! i am but humble and imperfect execution and the source of overly horny scenes.
> 
> in this chap: continued D/s and threesome dynamics, and lots of negotiation in-media-res

Pat wrestles. 

Not in general. Well, not anymore, high-school wrestling is long behind him, and he was never a champion anyway—too fragile, easily bowed and broken, ill-suited for the leg-based moves his stout broad-shouldered coach favored. There’s only so many times you can drill those doubles before even patient Coach Guzik gives up in exasperation, bemoans your posture and says _if you’re gonna win, you’re gonna need to fix your angles._ It’s harder for lanky people, apparently, but that’s no excuse. 

Still, that being said, Pat _does_ wrestle these days, from time-to-time, when he’s invited. It’s not the sweaty, bruising, uncomfortably-revelatory sport of his youth, though. No, nowadays Pat is just as sour-faced and brooding as his teenaged self, but much more drawn to showmanship _._ Staged wrestling is wonderful. The flash-and-dazzle physicality, the daring choreography, the pre-production and the campy expressions, the ridiculous plots and the bare athleticism. 

He wrestles a bit with the morality of liking it. It’s a dangerous and damaging sport, and it’s not even a _sport_. It’s more like a play. But no one would stand for a production of Hamlet wherein they dragged Ophelia off with a concussion half the time. So that’s a bit uncomfortable. 

Still, what a delight it is, to stand and whoop and holler for your team, unironic and yet _in on_ the joke. Pat likes a little cloak-and-dagger. He likes to be invited to pretend. He likes to root for a show-off. There’s something intoxicating, to be in the orbit of someone who _dares._ Pat doesn’t always dare, himself, but when he’s nearby he likes to get himself swept up.

Pat kinda knew and kinda didn’t know what he was getting swept up in, almost-a-year-ago. When this brilliant wild impetuous beauty plopped down across from him with a collection of desk-junk doodads and three first names and a smile that could coerce an entire village of children to dance away with him forever.

Brian is a precocious hurricane of ridiculous initials and improvised songs and whispered jokes to Clayton in meetings that collapse them both in silent giggles and make Pat have to cough and say _circle-up guys_ as if he’s the adult in the room. That’s dangerous, trusting Pat to be the adult, to keep things on-task and tidy. Brian’s dangerous. Pat knew that from the first. 

But when Brian came to town, Pat didn’t shy away. He bought ringside seats.

* * *

Pat’s wrestling with nerves. Their conversation has been—stupidly unawkward, with Brian slung over his shoulders and eye-contact comfortably impossible and the evidence of Brian’s arousal a tangible reminder to _just go for it Patrick_ — 

“Show me,” says Brian, and Pat dares.

He dares, and flirts, and jokes, but at some point before you get to groping someone you should probably look them in the eye and ask them if they’d like to be groped.

When they’re fucking sober. You need to ask that when you’re sober, if you’re not a total _asshole._

Monday’s guilt aside—three days’ anguish is plenty, thanks—three days of trying to remember what stupid joke he’s made—what flirting thing he’d said to which Brian had said back— _oh Pat Gill you know I’d let you take me out behind this bar and fuck me against the dumpster, don’t you? —_ three days of hating himself for seeking no clarification on that point, drunk-stupid as he was— 

no, no, two beers in, it wasn’t just the alcohol that made him _touch_ the kid— 

not touch, but _grab_ — 

tilt his head up by the hair and parry with _I’d rather do it at my place, I think_. 

And all in all he hates himself for how far it had gotten, how many subway stops and fumblings with keys, how many articles of clothing removed before he smelled the whiskey on Brian’s breath and realized— 

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks. Teasing, and not. 

On Monday he realized that everything—every star that was aligned so perfectly for good wild sex between friends who’ve always wanted to get their goddamn hands on each other—

everything was also one frame-of-reference shift from disaster. A clever funny coworker who liked to push it with his jokes. A sweet young kid who’s comfortable in his skin and hot and young and touchy-feely when he’s drunk. A brilliant actor who’d felt Pat’s hand at the nape of his neck and thought _oh fuck I really need this job—_

“You’re hot and bothered?” he clarifies, just checking, asking, unable to resist the urge to give a little half-shrug into Brian’s pants and feel the evidence there for himself. 

Pat shudders away the nerves when Brian’s answer is...enthusiastic. The kid’s sober and he’s horny and he wants to kiss again and Pat wants to—

well, Patrick wants _bend him in half_ and curl his fingers deep inside and see whether those desperate gasping gulps of air are sounds that can be elicited on cue. Oh yes, oh god, he wants that very badly— 

has wanted it for ages, truth be told— 

he almost lets himself get sucked back in to just that feeling—

catches himself just before the event horizon— 

“So where do I fit in?”

Thank Patrick’s lucky stars, Brian’s pretty fucking clear, about which of many possible worlds they’re in. They’re in a goddamned good one. But one not devoid of complexity. Pat’s brain maintains bare minimum functional capacity, the basic wherewithal to read the signs writ large across the sky. There’s a three-body problem to solve, here. He’s picked up this story in the middle. 

Pat’s never fucked someone with a boyfriend and he doesn’t know the rules. Pat hasn’t even _dated_ in years, hasn’t dated a _guy_ in almost a decade, and it’s just so very fucking typical for him to sign up for a grad-level course in relationship dynamics when he’s barely got the prereqs, and most recently just an F in heterosexual monogamy 101. 

“I kinda want to talk about it, before I jump in,” —he stutters out, convincing nobody, but at least gesturing vaguely toward chivalry before— “But I’m kinda, uh, also dying here—” 

He’d hate to wreck whatever the kid’s got going for him, with this mysterious Jonah fellow who plays guitar well and sings deep and low and looks at Brian with an intensity of mischievous affection that is unmistakable, even when you’re just glimpsing it half-drunk between slam poets at a dimly-lit indie open mic. They’ve been best friends since college, Patrick knows. They moved to New York together. They write soft, silky pining love songs and play them for Youtube, looking tenderly into the camera and crooning words of affection that rattle Pat’s bitter old bones so thoroughly he has to erase them from his search history. Yes, getting mixed up in this is diving into the deep end, for sure. 

But _fuck_ , if Pat doesn’t want to go for a swim… 

“Which one, do you think he’s rooting for?” 

…and Brian, silver-tongued siren that he is, is making a convincing argument that it’s Jonah who got them into this mess in the first place. 

“He usually votes for dick,” Brian’s voice is _smoky_ -quiet, seductive, a tendril of tentativeness just enough to coax Pat ever deeper. Jesus fucking christ Pat’s heart is beating out of his chest, careening around his ribcage like dice in cup. He gambles—reaches down—brushes his fingers along that cute sharp soft sweet chin— 

When Brian hums _yessir,_ melodious, sweet as honey, sweet as _sin_ , his eyes flutter shut. Pat can’t control his hungry gasp, can’t fucking _resist_ touching those lips in wonder, in disbelief, that something so cute and innocent-looking could produce such instantly sinful thoughts, thoughts that careen through a dozen paper-thin walls of reasonable self-constraint like a cartoon wrecking-ball— 

fuck he is _sucking—_

Pat mumbles something absolutely idiotic— 

“It’s Jonah’s fault,” Brian whines and holy shit how can he talk, how can he _whine_ , while mouthing so obscenely at Pat’s fingers—Pat pulls the one out for fear of indulging his urge to give him _two_ —to see how many digits that sly-sweet mouth can handle before he mumbles and moans and the syllables break apart— 

“...e thinks you’re cute. He thinks you like me.” 

Pat missed the first one while warring with his urges, but he knows the cadence of a three-part joke and quips back mindlessly, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” 

Two fingers slide _gorgeously_ into the kid’s mouth, he takes them willingly to the hilt before he pulls away to pout. “Patrick Gill I am letting you _fuck my mouth_ with your fingers, do not _dare_ tell me you don’t like me.” 

There’s a hint of nerves in that, a quick half-cautious scolding look that peeks out from behind his sultry sucking. Pat behaves like a goddamn normal human being for once, tips his hand, lays out his cards, and the cards say _I want to fuck you desperately and I could probably be convinced to do it anywhere you wanted._

Hah. Brian’s face careens past confidence right into fucking smug _._ The kid draws back his hand, looking to do some more goddamned _convincing_ right quick— 

Pat pulls for control because he can’t afford to lose his goddamn momentum now, can’t lose the plot, can’t have a repeat of Monday and end up groping sloppy desire-fulfilling thoughtless kisses, hands end up twisted in the kid’s hair and he’s falling _asleep_ — 

no, no, nothing like that. Pat musters any molecule of decency in his sex-starved ungracious brain and tries to talk it through. He stammers through a half a dozen suggestions: where to go? what to do? what’s right? what’s expected? And if his questions are rawer and ruder than they might otherwise be, how can Pat be blmed, because Brian is _fucking_ his fingers into his throat as if he’s so thirsty for cock he’s lost his goddamned mind. 

It breaks Pat, it does. His voice breaks, his resolve, any chance he had at seeming cool or calm or coherent in this scenario—he just knows he wants to touch this little demon, in any way he’s permitted, for as long as he’s allowed. 

“Brian, I’ve—I’ve never been in a threesome before,” he stutters hopelessly. “Can you—” he swallows. “Can you just tell me what to do?” 

“ _Kiss_ me,” Brian smiles with a confidence that Pat hopes to borrow, “and then we’ll figure it out.” 

Pat catches a breath, and then those willing lips.

* * *

By all accounts, it should be _Pat_ that kisses like a desperate thing. 

Patrick hasn’t touched someone like this in—well, a while. He’s not averse to the idea, it’s just that people read his boundaries on his face, maybe, and let him be. The only one who regularly transgresses is Brian, actually. Not just on Monday. A dozen weeks into Gill and Gilbert, and Pat always thought it’d be fun, but he’d never thought the blend of goofy jokes and evening-tiredness and Brian’s eager readiness-for-touch would catalyze these little moments of—sitting on the couch together, laughing, and Brian laughs with his whole body and topples over onto Pat’s shoulder—Brian showing him how to hold his mouth to blow up a balloon—pressing on bandaids, sticking on greenscreen—brushing back a curtain of hair to paste cold tattoos up his neck— 

yeah, okay, it’s sick, but Pat looks forward to it. To being close with someone who gives of themself so freely. Who laughs and jokes and _tries_ and fails and touches and jumps and rolls and thrusts his hips and dances and whoops and sings. Brian is _so much,_ all the time, and it’s not just for Pat, it’s for everyone. So he’d assumed… 

But now. 

Brian wanted to kiss him on Monday, and Brian wants to kiss him again today, and Brian— 

_is_ kissing him. 

Brian doesn’t kiss like he touches. He touches with a casualness, a friendly ease that makes it not-weird, not-intimate, just the most calm and affectionate thing in the world. Pat love/hates it, loves how easy it is to un-hunch his shoulders and just go along, hates how easy he makes it look, how much it makes him feel awkward and alone, how much he wants it to be _more_ — 

but Brian wants more too, if this kiss is any indication. 

The kid kisses up at him _hard_ , sloppy and fast, all lips teeth tongue cheeks _hands_ at once, hands fisting up into Pat’s shirt like he’s dangling off a cliff, somehow both probing and yielding. He breathes in loud puffs, hot air onto Pat’s skin, back taut with a dancer’s arch that pins his own hands between their chests. It’s effortful, this kiss, although he doesn’t jam his tongue down Patrick’s throat—he flicks it in his mouth, more like, tempts, taunts, then sucks his lip to aching—invites Pat’s tongue to follow him back. Brian relinquishes his balance before Pat even realizes where his hands are, gripped tight at the neck and the small of Brian’s back, supporting the trembling tightly-drawn body below him.

It’s the kiss of a wild thing that’ll never be tamed. It tastes like desperation and sweet tea. It makes Pat feel _desired_ , a kiss like that. 

Pat finds his body knows what to do, brain okays emergency procedures constructed for just such a situation, neurons sparking a smug _we-told-you-so-aren’t-you-lucky-we-fantasized-about-this._ Directives to his nerves push his body closer, closer, shin-to-shin, knees threatening to tip Brian back onto the couch where he was perched. Why his traitor brain prefers the limber body below him unstable, nearly toppling— 

well, those are thoughts for future selves, selves with brainpower to spare for something other than cataloguing the geography of Brian’s mouth, the whimpering sounds he can somehow still make when his tongue is not, precisely, his own. 

They do topple, then. It’s not too horridly ungainly, somehow sorts out with Brian seated and Pat straddling him and god his fingers are in Brian’s hair and he feels like a satanic creature warring with possession— 

“Do you—” he starts, in a hurried whisper, but doesn’t get a question out and doesn’t wait for an answer, just sees Brian start to nod and grips that tuft of hair and wrenches his head back to get at his long lovely neck— 

“ _Pat Gill,_ ” Brian whimper-hisses, caught in-between sensations. “Please don’t make me—”

“What,” Pat rasps darkly, hovering only a millimeter from Brian’s throat, waiting for instructions— 

the sob is plaintive and also hot with desire. “ _Please,_ you’re sitting on me and I—remember I—oh god, please sir, if you keep—” 

_Christ on a cracker_ it’s good to hear his voice breaking, the eager whimper-gasps of need, but Pat can’t tell what he’s begging for, if he needs his wishes granted or wants them denied. He pulls back a touch, shifts back his weight. 

“What should I stop.” 

Brian shoots him an appraising look. 

“Depends on what you want to happen, here, Pat Gill.” His tone isn’t even, the words trace over the stuttering susurrus of his breath. His pupils are wide.

Pat licks his lips and tells the truth. “I don’t know what I want.” 

“All right,” Brian hums. “My safeword is _rubato_. Which is not to say I’m using it.” 

“Rubato?” 

“Music nerd,” he closes his eyes. “Now please continue ravaging me, and I’ll keep gasping _no oh stop oh please_ like a good Southern girl.” 

“ _Ravaging,_ huh?” Pat grins. 

“I do declare,” Brian breathes, softly. “This—” he cracks a lid, to peer mischievously at Pat, pinning him down, craning his neck back, grinding their hips together inelegantly. “This is _not_ kissing like a gentleman.” 

“More of a scoundrel,” Pat agrees, and dares to nose down his neck and bite into the crease above his shoulder, feeling carnivorous and wild. Brian _moans_ pitifully in response and turns his head, and Pat jerks it back for him, keeps him stretched out tight and helpless, sweating with false resistance. There’s no coherent syllables for a moment as Pat sucks hard into the salty skin. 

He draws back to look and—

 _god_ , does the kid bruise up. That pale pretty skin marred instantly with purple-red. It’s irresistible. No music terms come forth, so Pat dips down again— 

a few more moments, some muffled moans twisted out of Brian’s hair— 

a jagged line of bruises up the side of his long neck to underneath his ear— 

“You were _made_ for this,” Pat breathes, reverent, before he thinks. It’s evil, to say a thing like that, but Brian’s head goes limp and he moans low and squirms. 

“ _Please_ ,” the kid pants, and again Pat’s body acts _in loco,_ when he can’t think to save his life. He finds Brian’s mouth again, seats firmly on his knees, their bodies pressed tight so Brian can buck and grind to his heart’s content, like a horny teenager seeking anything, anything he can get, as much as he’s allowed to have. 

The shriek is beautiful, when it comes, right into Patrick’s mouth. He can’t help but smile at it, kiss into it a little more, because he knows that sound— 

desire and joy and horror and embarrassment— 

and it’s an equal delight, when the kid drags his head away and swears in a small voice. “Oh fuck _you_ Patrick Gill I _liked_ these pants.” 

“Me too,” Pat chuckles, and goes to sit up just a smidge—but Brian’s hands are pushing him off in earnest, dipping his head to look at his lap and groan. 

“Oh _god_ I’m a friggin’ mess,” he mutters, and it’s cute, how he’s complaining and fussing about himself and still one hand is curled in Patrick’s shirt. 

“I’ll lend you my hoodie for the subway,” Pat offers, perhaps a solution thrown off too quickly for a person who’d swear he’s never, ever been in this situation. 

Brian looks up and _pouts_ . “It’s not _that_ . I’m used to looking ridiculous. But Jonah’s gonna— _god,_ he’s gonna wreck my shop, Patrick, for being such an easy slut.” 

There’s a faint crackle behind that statement, an unfamiliar tone, not unpleasant but not devoid of honest nerves. Brian’s not looking at his pants or at where his hand grips the shirt at Patrick’s hip. He’s looking somewhere in-between, and Pat doesn’t know where, unsure if he’s considering Pat’s over-eager crotch or just staring into the thoughtful middle distance, that way he does, and contemplating what Jonah might do to him— 

“Oh?” 

Hopefully that doesn’t sound like Pat’s trying to imagine— 

“He’s gonna fuck me up,” Brian’s voice is rougher, now, and somehow he’s curling his heel around Patrick’s leg. “Until I’m sorry. Do you want to help?” 

Pat’s heart flutters. He has no…he’s not…

his knee buckles and he barely saves himself from falling right back onto Brian’s body, catches himself on a hand and knee on the couch beside instead. They’re still well-intertwined, and Patrick’s dick has _certainly_ not forgotten what has transpired thus far. 

“To help drafting your apology?” Pat manages to get out, bowled-over but wry to the end. 

Brian’s chest moves in breathy-quiet laugh. “ _Sure_ , Pat Gill. If you want. Phone’s in my pocket. Let’s see what he says I’m in for.” 

Pat takes that as the invitation it is, a reason to grope at Brian’s perfect ass a moment longer than necessary. Eventually he fishes the teal-blue phone out of his pocket. He proffers it to the kid, but Brian shakes his head, rejects it. 

“Go on, then. You said you’d help.” 

He thumbs it open, finds the right app. “You missed some messages.” 

“It’s fine. Open a text to Jonah.” 

“I did,” Pat murmurs. “I meant you missed some messages from Jonah.” 

“Oh,” Brian curls his lip into a grin. “I’m sure they’re interesting. Hit me.” 

Patrick scrolls up the unreads and reads them out, time-stamped, four chunks spaced out by intervals of ten minutes or so:

> 8:09pm   
>  **caught the stream** **  
> ** **looked like it all went well**

innocent enough— 

> 8:25pm   
>  **im gonna assume from the time delay** **  
> ** **that it went VERY well** **  
> ** **told you sooooooo**

“There are...one two three four...seven oh’s,” he reports. 

“He’s a jackass,” Brian snorts. 

> 8:30pm ****  
> **txt wen ur headed out** ****  
> **and also** **  
> ** **offer pat to sleep over** **  
> ** **if ur up for sharing**

Pat’s proud of himself, that his breath doesn’t catch, and Brian doesn’t make any sound of surprise either, and so he barrels on. It feels invasive, reading his texts like this, but they’re _about_ him, so… 

> 8:33 pm  
>  **p** **ls tell me ur up for sharing** ****  
> **uve been talking him up for like six months** **  
> ** **and jojo wants a PIECE** **  
> ** **iff he’s amenable ofc**

“Who says _amenable_ ,” Pat manages. 

Brian smiles, limp and sweaty, and lifts a hand in vague suggestion of a shrug. “He’s fancy.” 

“What does he mean, six months.” 

The kid squirms, and then the squirming catches something and he gives a little half-gasp that turns into a laugh. “It means I’m friggin’ _insufferable_ when I have a crush. Jonah’s got the patience of a saint. I spent a whole evening last week—” he reaches up, expression still a bit honeyed with post-orgasmic bliss, “—talking about your beard. And how fucking perfectly scruffy it is.” 

Pat doesn’t know how to feel— 

well, yes, still _very fucking horny_ and pressed against the object of his desires—wanting more, and wanting it _now_ —but it’s weird to know he’s been _talked-about_ like that. Talked-up. How good he looks. That’s new, to his knowledge. It shivers through him in a way that maybe isn’t bad, but isn’t imminently lusty either. More pensive. He draws back. 

“No, no, I’m sorry—” Brian whimpers, clutching feebly as Pat stands. “I don’t mean to—if you’re not— _please_ just let me suck you off. I won’t be weird anymore. I’m sorry. Please let me get you off. That’s all. You can just walk out after and leave me a filthy mess.”

“No, no, you gotta clean up,” Pat murmurs, and Brian looks for all the world like he’s about to cry. Pat corrects hastily. “No! No, not like that. I mean, uh, just you really _gotta._ And I—” he stops, looks up at the corner of the streaming room, though there’s nothing there to catch the eye. “I gotta think about if I’m _amenable_ or not.” 

Brian sucks in a slow breath, and it still sounds wet, teetering on the razor’s edge, like he’s constructing a house of cards and Pat’s just rested his hand menacingly on the tabletop— 

“Not that. To the Jonah part. Not to you. You’re a yes. Definitely yes. He’s, ah. Um. A solid maybe.” 

The kid _squeaks_ in relief and hugs him hard around the middle, a friendly-crushing hug of thanks that Patrick certainly doesn’t deserve. Brian’s enthusiasm is extreme, though, unmired by Pat’s fuck-ups, his exclamations are rapid fluctuations of shifting gravity that make Pat’s stomach lurge by turns with need and fear and ravenous hunger. How does Jonah keep up, he wonders. 

“Should we clean up?” Pat murmurs evenly, with the breath he can steal around the hug. 

“Oh! Yes, yes, _gosh,_ yes,” Brian bounces up, careens suddenly back to boldly unafraid. “I bet everyone’s gone. C’mon.”

* * *

The all-gender restroom at Vox is an anachronism— _all_ the restrooms are all-gender now—but it’s still the best place for a private makeout session. Worth worth walking down three hallways for, even if there’s a couple people left at Eater who maybe see them pass by. What can you do. 

Any hint of embarrassment rolls off once the door shuts closed and locks behind them and Brian takes a step to the sink and Pat grabs him by the nape of his denim jacket like a naughty kitten and presses him into the door for further exploration. 

“ _Please_ let me clean up,” Brian whines pitifully, but Pat suspects he’s supressing a smile. “I’m a mess.” 

“I don’t think a minute’s gonna make much difference,” Pat’s got a hand under his shirt, rucking up the polo to feel the skin— _fuck_ he’s barely touched the kid. His body’s hot and sweat-smooth, swells with breath as Pat traces firmly up-down every rib, rests a palm against his chest. The heart must be beating fast in there, if his flushed face is any indication, but Pat can’t feel the pulse. Not until his fingertips have crawled all the way up through Brian’s shirt and found the notch at the top of his sternum, thumbed over the edge of bone and into the soft skin underbraced with fragile tendons. He doesn’t press hard, but still he can feel every breath there, every swallow, the shivers he’s inducing and the speeding _thumpthumpthump_ of Brian’s heart 

Pat doesn’t stop to count the beats, though, to time out fifteen seconds and multiply by four. He’s busy. Keeps just a thumbprint at the base of Brian’s throat while his other hand sneaks down, getting to work on Brian’s fly. 

“I can—oh!” 

The protest dies as Pat jerks his pants down, one handed, off his hips.There’s a wet patch to deal with, sure and certain, but that’s not Pat’s concern right now. 

“You’re a mess,” Pat repeats Brian’s words, intones them evenly. 

As he hoped, Brian _melts_ at that, shivers against the wall and slides his hands up to his hair in something just a little south of agitation. God, he’s a fucking sight, rucked up and rumpled, lips wet, eyes shining, hickied-up like a schoolgirl and breathing fast again already. His hands leave his hair—they didn’t tidy a thing, if anything his tresses are _more_ fucked-up than before—but they slide up instead of down. Pat can’t take his eyes off them, there, the tender peach of his wrists against the blue smooth wall. 

Brian seems to notice his interest. Crosses his wrists quite deliberately, above his head, tilts his chin, eyes impossibly wide and lips just parted. Offering himself. _Jesus_. 

“Keep your hands up there,” Pat mutters, because he can take a fucking hint. “I’ll take care of it.” 

“Yessir,” Brian slides into obedience as easy as pie, whine gone and nervous panting fading too. He’s still now, confident in his way, but not smug. Just waiting. Watching. 

Maybe Brian expects Pat to continue roughing his pants down and groping, but he needs to take this slower. Pace himself. He’s already done plenty, but he’s not gonna finish his sinning here. Brian deserves better than a sloppy fuck in the work bathroom. He needs to be laid-out slow on a bed, worked up into a heaving mess, _beg_ to be allowed to come again— 

Pat crouches suddenly, all the way to the ground, focuses on unlacing the kid’s sneakers. Clean-up, he reminds himself. You made this mess, now tidy it up. 

The sneakers ease off one-by-one, Brian balancing obediently on each foot. He strips the socks too, and is struck by the urge to find out if he’s ticklish—no, no. Focus, Patrick. He lets go, and if the kid’s unhappy about being barefoot on the bathroom floor—it’s clean as a whistle in here and smells of lysol—he doesn’t say a thing about it, just breathes steadily. The even breaths continue as Pat eases pants off his thighs, over his knees. His boxers are maroon and silky and utterly ruined with sloppy wetness down the front. It’s cute. 

Pat looks up then, trying to gauge whether he should continue, but Brian’s just still and watchful. 

“Sasquatch legs,” he murmurs, quirks a half-a-smile. 

“Beautiful,” Patrick presses into his well-muscled thigh, and relishes the shiver. 

“Monsterfucker,” Brian says, a joke that sounds like a sigh. “I know your type.” 

“Do you, now,” Pat presses his knees apart, a little, just to see, to regain the momentum. 

“Yup,” the kid squirms, presses his shoulderblades into the wall. “I see you, Gill. Wondering how long it’ll take to get me hard again so you can torture me some more. How long I can hold my arms up before I’m begging you for mercy.” 

Pat hadn’t honestly been wondering that, not really, but— 

“Am I too slow,” he muses up into that lidded gaze. 

“Take your time.” Brian’s smile fades into something else. “You can take all night.” 

_God,_ he now has a vision of Brian, stark naked, shivering on the wall while Pat tends to the mess he’s made. He _wants_ it. Seems like he might be allowed to have it, too. 

“Jonah would worry,” Pat murmurs, as he eases Brian’s pants off his ankles. 

“He’d guess where I was.”

“I suppose he would.” 

That’s all the words for a while, as Pat gets out of his crouch. His next move is quite slow, deliberate. He touches one of the kid’s arms, still obediently pressed above his head, pulls it out a bit and starts to ease the denim sleeve off. Brian makes no protest, as one arm then the other yields the jacket. Next is the shirt, and Brian doesn’t flinch. He’s good. He doesn’t help, doesn’t jump in, but doesn’t resist either. Just follows like a good dance partner, pliant, yielding. Pat stacks it all: the jacket, pants, the socks, the shirt, an untidy pile on top of the shoes. He stands back a moment to contemplate. 

Brian _whines_ when being stared at, screws his face up prettily and bucks his hips, still clad in his boxers. “This is the _opposite_ of cleaning me up,” he protests. “I feel slimy.” 

“Whose fault is that,” Pat queries, though he’s not quite sure himself. 

“ _Jonah_ ,” Brian snorts, bratty but still pinned up against the wall by only Patrick’s measured stare. “This is all his fault. I wouldn’t usually—” he grimaces and writhes a bit, “—but now I—I need to—” he glances down, a shadow of nerves flickering across his face, but Brian is nothing if not bold and Pat can see him grab his anxieties and _twist_ them into something new. “Please sir, can I add more lube?” 

Pat closes his eyes briefly and reconsiders his dedication to not fucking right here in the bathroom. 

“Please, Patrick,” Brian begs, maybe because it makes Pat’s breath catch. “If I’m gonna—if I’m gonna make it all the way home with this thing in, I have to. I’ll be quick—just let me— ” 

“You absolutely will _not_ be quick,” Pat cuts him off. “I said I’d take care of it. Turn around and keep your hands on the wall.” 

The kid spins instantly, spreads his palms flat, steps back a few paces so he’s bending over wantonly. Pat traces his hand over the boxers again, but doesn’t tease too long, just pulls them down and lets Brian step out. He’s not sure where to put them—the floor seems wrong, but so does on Brian’s clothes—he settles for the sink. He’ll clean up later. 

Brian’s shivering-naked now and he’s arched up needily. 

“I can do it,” he breathes into the wall, “if you want.” 

“What if _I_ want,” Pat asks and Brian makes a little _hmm_ that might be almost a chuckle. 

“You can. I’d like that. It’s...it’s easy. Pull it out, drip some lube on it, shove it back in me and don’t post the sounds I make on instagram. Lube’s in my jacket pocket.” 

“Of course it is,” Pat murmurs, and Brian really does laugh, then. 

“Are you gonna call me a slut,” Brian twists his head around, with a little grin.

Pat just looks at him, deliberately rakes an eye over his naked bent-over body with an eyebrow raised. 

“Well I never, Pat Gill. I am a model of propriety.” 

He sounds so _sniffy_ with his smirking jokes that Pat dares to thwap him on the ass. Brian squeaks much louder than the gentle smack deserves, turns back and presses his forehead to the wall. 

“Oh _please_ don’t do that,” he begs, fingers clenching., “I’m so bad at being quiet. Please don’t—unless you really want to hear me scream.” 

“I told you already,” Pat mutters, tracing a hand up the shivering curve of his ass. “I don’t know what I want. I’m starting to get worried that I—” he hesitates, “—that I want _everything._ ” 

“I’ll scream so good for you at home,” Brian whimpers plaintively. “You can spank me all you want, at your place, my place, a motel, a friggin’ alley, anywhere that’s not at work. I can’t be moaning like a whore at work _._ Not _again_.”

Pat relents, shelves the questions, too eager to take him up on these whispered offers to wait any longer. His fingers find the base of the plug, a rounded rectangle tucked snug between Brian’s asscheeks. Brian spreads his legs obediently, bends over further, whimpers a little at the touch. 

He grasps it firmly and starts to work it out, not teasing too much in case it really is uncomfortable. His businesslike demeanor goes unappreciated though, as Brian whimpers wantonly. 

“Thick neck,” Pat comments, as he tweaks the black thing out. It’s a cute little plug, short, round, in soft silicone, but that base is wide enough that you would feel it. “You had this in all _day_?” 

“Yessir,” Brian mumbles. “It was very distracting.” 

“No wonder you were so bad at carrying me.” 

“Yeah.” A breathy laugh. “I won’t wear one on Monday. I’ll never make it to Times Square.” 

“You ready?” Pat murmurs, and presses the lubed-up tip back up against his hole. 

“Uh-huh,” Brian hums. “Please.” 

Pat finds himself hesitating, enjoying himself but wildly crazily _bowled-over_ by just how easily he’s gotten here. This far. His mind blank, fingers digging into Brian’s naked hip, pressing a plug against his ass and readying to slide it home. 

God, he never wants to stop, though. The needy whimpers don’t help. 

“ _Please,_ Pat,” Brian begs again, dropping his head beneath his arms. “I’m s-so—” he stops himself, swallows. “I c-can’t be empty when I get home. I’ll get in trouble.” 

Jesus God, what that means, Pat can’t imagine. Though he tries. 

“I’ve got you,” Pat purrs and wraps a forearm around the slender hips. He should be hesitant about this, but he’s not, for whatever reason. He doesn’t want to tease. He wants to be gentle with this gift he’s been given. To take good care of him. 

He opts for a slow back-and-forth and twisting, not too much, just enough to feel like continuous probing movement. He tries hard not to think about how easy it is to slide the bulge inside, how open and ready Brian is. Has been. All day. Two fingers would be easy right now. Three even, probably, or just jump straight to— 

Brian makes a guttered sound, and Pat remembers his resolve to be direct and unteasing. Right, right. He presses more steadily, seats the plug, firmly in his ass. 

“Th-thank you, sir,” Brian stutters, and sounds honestly relieved. “I thought you’d—” He doesn’t continue, doesn’t articulate what wickedness he figured Pat might try on him. 

Pat hums in recognition, squeezes his hip. It takes a moment, to step away from Brian’s ass and clean him up. He finds in himself some self-control though, enough well-paced but shallow breaths to return to the matter at hand. He said he’d take care of it, so he does. 

A thorough rinsing in the sink, a couple passes under the air-dryer. Some wet paper towels that make Brian gasp against the cold, cleaning off every delicate pretty part of him as needed. His ministrations are quick but tender and Brian writhes a little at the touch, but mostly lets himself be cleaned. 

“I want to touch you more,” Pat sighs wistfully, Brian’s clothing in his hands. “But not here.” 

“Where should we go,” Brian takes his shirt, but doesn’t pull it on quite yet, more clutches it. He’s looking hopeful, eager, willing. He doesn’t push. 

Pat vaguely remembers that some minutes ago they were supposed to text Jonah, and feels a little twist of…something. 

“Your place, I think,” he says, and finds himself surprisingly unafraid. “I think I owe Jonah some explanation for keeping you so long at work.” 

Brian stares a long moment, looks like he’s about to say something, but blessedly it doesn’t materialize. “Okay,” his mouth twists up in a half-smile. “Gimme a sec to get dressed.”

* * *

They hold hands on the subway ride, Pat and Brian, like innocent kids in love. Not like the filthy fuck-drunk coworkers they are. It’s silly, but it calms Pat’s racing heart.


	3. twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **catch** _— noun — /kæt͡ʃ/, /kɛt͡ʃ/ (countable, music)_ A type of humorous round in which the voices gradually catch up with one another; usually sung by men and often having bawdy lyrics.

Jonah twists. 

Either way, that is. He’s perfectly happy to be turned around, wrong-footed, surprised, blind-sided, jerked up short with a laugh of delight. Hardly could room with Brian, if you didn’t. Certainly couldn’t make _music_ with Brian, if you minded a bit of a twist. Brian has a sort of pineapple-splash nature, so sweet it should be cloying but it’s not because the acid’s just so _sharp_ —it’ll eat through just about anything but damn, it makes a helluva drink. 

But also, Jonah doesn’t mind doing the twisting. He’ll twist Brian’s weird prompts to his purpose, work them on the loom of his music-making, introduce order, structure, pluck the strings, record the tracks, make it all work out nice even if Brian insisted that this song should include the sound of _chewing on peanut butter,_ what the fuck Brian.

Or Jonah can twist the knife a bit, make him do take after take of that ridiculous shit, until he’s mouth-full-whining and Jonah’s grinning his shit-eating grin and resetting the track.

Or Jonah can twist his hand in Brian’s hair, and make him whimper with sticky apologies, work him up until he’s _begging_ to be allowed to clean out his his mouth. 

Brian hates the taste of soap but he hates not being allowed to suck Jonah’s cock worse.

He’s easy to lead around like that. Brian’s so _passionate_. He wants everything, needs everything, talks fast, moves fast, thinks hard, loves hard, grins beautifully and sucks dick like a fuckin’ champ. It’s easy to tug just enough to get Bri to come along, to get him where Jonah wants him. When someone’s _that_ enthusiastic, it’s infectious. It makes Jonah bold. Bossy, even. 

A text here, a touch there. Encouragement. Teasing. Guidance. He knows Brian so fucking well. Sometimes Brian prioritizes research over sleep, and Jonah’s not afraid to unplug the goddamn router. Sometimes Jonah’s been working twenty-hour days, and Brian needs to be told _go out and get laid before you drive me crazy._ Sometimes Brian’s on the floor crying over metrical feet, and he needs to be told it’s okay if he doesn’t get all eight-hundred in, dude. 

It’s not benevolence, exactly. Jonah finds himself endlessly orchestrating things, creating suitably dramatic backgrounds for Bri’s wild desires to play out on, but it’s not out of the goodness of his heart. Brian’s a thing of beauty, whether he’s in motion or made to be still. It’s irresistible, the opportunity to watch him, to prompt him, to prod him, to get him in trouble. 

Of course, Brian’s absolutely capable of getting himself into and out of trouble. Just, Jonah likes to help out, a bit.

* * *

Jonah twists a bit on the hook, waiting for Brian’s response to his texts. 

> 8:09pm **  
> ** **caught the stream** **  
> ** **looked like it all went well**

He’s only given, oh, five minutes since it ended. Which is probably enough. If it’d gone poorly, Brian’d already be shame-texting him, begging Jonah to get a few pints of ice cream and a lot of cuddles on deck for the evening. 

Jonah has the ice cream ready. But Brian doesn’t respond. Not for five minutes, ten. At fifteen minutes, Jonah figures either the Polygon offices are actively on fire, or things went according to plan. 

> 8:25pm ****  
> **im gonna assume from the time delay** **  
> ** **that it went VERY well** **  
> ** **told you sooooooo**

No response yet again. Jonah turns the phone over in his hand. He wonders what they’re doing. Whether they’re working through heartfelt conversation or just horny snogging. It could be that Patrick is very politely explaining why he’s not interested, face gently serious but kind in that way he has. Jonah can see that. That sharp chin, angled down, a little frown of worry on his brow that he’s disappointing someone whom he clearly cares about so much. 

Brian _would_ be disappointed, if it went like that. Jonah too, truth be told, especially now that he knows Pat’s wiry sexy arms aren’t just for show, they also can hoist Brian up like a doll. But tragic missed opportunities aside, it’d be better for everyone to put the tiger on the table and yell at it, yknow, just make sure everyone’s clear on who likes who and how best to live in harmony with each other. 

Jonah doubts that’s how it’s going, though. He’d bet his second-favorite guitar against Pat turning this one down. 

(Okay, maybe only the third-favorite, but still.)

He’s _watched_ Pat, okay. On-screen and in-person. And he watched that fucking stream. And Pat was having _fun_. Playing around, fucking with Brian, enjoying his breathy wretchedness. And to be fair, keeping Bri’s butt mostly off-screen. A real gentleman. 

> 8:30pm ****  
> **txt wen ur headed out** ****  
> **and also** **  
> ** **offer pat to sleep over** **  
> ** **if ur up for sharing**

Jo tries for hospitality, but his thumbs don’t phrase it right. Just comes off horny. As usual. 

Ugh. He shouldn’t be applying pressure, here. First times are delicate. Brian and Pat should fuck however they like. Jonah’d bet that Pat opted for _quick and filthy_ , because how could you not? with the sounds they’d been making for over an hour? Jo himself was half-hard by the end, untouched, just enraptured by the desperate wailing and useless writhing, while Brian was trapped on Pat’s strong shoulders. 

Fuck. Maybe Pat’s a good guy, though. He seems like one. Polite. Like maybe he’d try his frowny-smoldering best to get Brian home before bending him in half. But it’d take some real self-control. Brian’s not likely to be very reserved. He was already fuckin’ worked up by lunchtime. He’d be whining, begging, bucking. Jo figures one thing’ll follow another, and those knobbly-knuckled hands are no doubt raking under Brian’s clothes this very moment.

Jo closes his eyes. He shouldn’t add to the pressure, but he does. Never claimed to be a saint. 

> 8:33 pm   
>  **pls tell me ur up for sharing** ****  
> **uve been talking him up for like six months** **  
> ** **and jojo wants a PIECE** **  
> ** **iff he’s amenable ofc**

After that message, Jonah puts his phone down. In a drawer, actually. That’s as far as he’s gonna go twisting Brian’s arm, tonight, because if Bri’s gonna go get laid the last thing he needs is a million texts. Jo goes and takes a long indulgent shower, closes his eyes and thinks the stream over, beat by beat, in the almost-unbearably hot spray. 

The two of them are just so _pretty_ together. Long-limbed and skinny-strong and pale alike. Brian’s lithe easy-moving body and overlarge eyes and pale hair and jumpy squirmy flinches. Pat’s hunched-over shoulders and brooding glances and rugged handsomeness, wrestling him effortlessly up and over his head before Brian even gets a chance to protest. God, Jonah hopes they’re fucking. 

He jerks off to the thought of Brian taunting, touching, making his horny forward jokes and maybe just a little drunk. Who knows, maybe Pat took him out for a quick drink, maybe they’ve been home long enough for a beer or two. Maybe Brian’s already sprawled out on Patrick’s bed, looking like he needs a fucking spanking. 

Jonah knows what Pat’s bed looks like, from his streams. He’s…put some research into Pat. At first it was just basic decency. It’d be really frickin’ mean, to prod Brian into hitting on the guy unless Jo knew _for sure_ that Pat’d be receptive. So he collected data. Watched their streams, their videos. Saw that thing in Patrick Gill’s eye. That thing that some people get, when they look at Brian. Anyone with good eyes and half a brain, really. Bri’s a sexy brilliant little piece of ass, and he’s built to be adored, and he _works it_ , too. Pat’s not made of stone, and Jonah saw what he needed to see there. 

But fuck, after a while, he just…well. Watched Pat’s videos, too. Sue him, the guy’s cute. Hot, even. Hair so long and silky, often wet with shower-water or sweat in his crowded little room. He looks like he might be in a band. Like he might own some eyeliner. Like he might pin Brian’s wrists down to the bed and fuck his face. Like he might whimper when you pulled his hair. 

Jonah comes, not in an organized way, but just to a vague sense of potential. He gets out of the shower quick, dries off and checks his texts for updates. 

> 8:47pm ****  
> **it went good!!!** ****  
> **me n pat are coming home** **  
> ** **his first 3some but hes game** **  
> ** **be gentle with him k**

Jonah breathes once in and out and allows himself a little smirk. He was right. He _knew_ he was right. Now the production really gets started. 

He’s not nervous, though. He knows how to do this. He used to get nervous, but hang around Brian long enough and you just start to get _confident_ in yourself. Maybe because Bri’s frickin’ good at everything and he makes everything work out right. Maybe because Bri’s a nutcase and the shit he tries is so crazy it makes your own failures pale in comparison. But either way, Jo’s confident as he pulls on his shirt. He’s got this one.

* * *

 _I’m Brian and I’m gay_ was the very first thing Brian ever said to Jonah, grinning like it was a joke

 _I’m Jonah and I’m still thinking about it?_ he’d responded, almost instantly, and that was the first time he’d told a single soul. 

Brian does that to him. So confidently vulnerable, innocent-sly, sneaking under your upturned hand and offering you his throat as if he knows something about you that you don’t—

 _Oh thank Jesus,_ Brian breathed, that day, and ran a hand through his hair, a tic, as if he’d been nervous. _I hope that means I don’t have to move all my stuff again._

Jonah wonders sometimes what would have happened, if Yiping had showed up before October freshman year. If he hadn’t gotten an email three weeks into first semester: 

> _“Due to unfortunate circumstances your assigned roommate will not be matriculating this semester. Attached please find the meet-and-greet-sheet for your new roommate, whose move-in-date is Monday, October 3.”_

There was precious little on that sheet about Brian Gilbert, and nothing that could have prepared Jonah for the genuine article. Into music, that was cool. Goes by BDG, yeah no thanks. That was all in terms of interesting details, until he met the man himself. 

You’re not allowed to put your sexual orientation on the meet-and-greet-sheet, apparently. Brian bitches about that. Brian’s lawyer-brother Patrick thought it was a good call though. Prudent. The university can’t get sued for putting queer kids together or keeping them apart or otherwise doing something wrong, if they just don’t know who’s gay. Older-brother-Patrick is always annoyingly right, according to younger-brother-Brian, even though you don’t fucking need older brothers to be right you just need them to be nice with you when you call them and are upset because your roommate found you making out with a dude and freaked the fuck out and you are dealing with the concomitant awkwardness of room reassignments. 

All this came out awful fast, maybe two minutes of that introductory conversation, and it seemed like it should have been pretty upsetting, but Brian David Gilbert was fascinatingly unperturbed. He interrupted Jonah’s _oh man, I’m so sorry for that_ by leaping up in the air and pumping his fist. Which was confusing. Jonah spent approximately 1.3 seconds being confused, until he realized that the indefatigable BDG had spotted his ukelele on the wall and was scrambling over his bed, asking if he could touch it. While also already touching it. 

_How’s the new roommate,_ his sister asked. 

_Nice,_ he shrugged as if there wasn’t much to say. _Likes music._

 _Worth having to move all your laundry off the other bed?_ she smirked at him. 

_Yup,_ Jonah answered, and pivoted to talking about things at home. 

He didn’t want to try to explain. It was too ineffable. This weird leggy kid who’d climbed into his bed and stolen his ukelele and plucked out a weird fucking bouncy cover of _Solsbury Hill._ And Jonah had made a joke that was too esoteric about Vampire Weekend. And Brian had looked up with a totally glorious open-faced smile and said _oh shit you look like_ _that_ _and you’re a music nerd too?_

(Later, Jonah would make fun of him for that. Bold as brass. Hit on your brand new roommate just after your last one kicked you out for being too gay. Brian would snort and throw a pillow and chirp _double-or-nothing, that’s the way I roll, bay-bee!_ )

But at the time, Jonah didn’t laugh. He just gaped like a fish, because it was so frickin’ out-of-left-field and this weird fluffy-headed kid was on his bed and was the first person who even knew he was bi and saying shit like that and is he hitting on me and and like hoo boy, is this what college is gonna be _like_...? 

Brian was good at reading people though. Even new people. Even scared people. Even people who don’t quite know what they want. Bri saw it. The hesitation, the nerves, the hopefulness. He narrowed his eyes and gave a world-ending grin and clarified in sing-song syllables, _Jonah Scott, have you ever kissed a guy? And follow-up, would you like to?_

What a fucking twist.

* * *

“We’re home!!” Brian bellows loud into the apartment, unnecessary, since Jonah’s already at the kitchen table, leaning back casually with a knee up, fingers on his laptop keys. 

“Oh, good,” he murmurs, waves hello, as if he’s in the middle of something, busy. If he’s gonna need to make an ah-it’s-okay-I-have-work-anyway excuse, best to lay that track now. “Hi Pat.” 

Brian stills in his enthusiasm. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah can see he’s holding Patrick’s hand, pulling him in, not hard, but gently. As he calms, though, he lets go. “Oh. Is Laura here?” 

“No, she’s still on an overnighter,” Jonah says casually, stretches his neck. “Just getting some work done. How was the stream?” 

When Jo finally glances up properly, Patrick looks— 

well, just as handsome in person. If anything, a bit more, for how flustered he is. Hair a bit of a mess, face edging toward red, looking everywhere and nowhere, shifting weight like he’s halfway-to-fleeing just from standing in their kitchen. Eesh, no wonder Bri told him to take it easy. Fuck, this might require a change of tack actually— 

“Don’t bullshit,” Brian snorts, tone sharp and flirty and cheerful-sharp. “I _know_ you watched us, you bastard. Get over here and tell me what a good job I’ve done.” 

Jonah steps up to that, shuts his laptop and throws off his feigned disinterest instantly. Look, if Bri thinks this is how they should play it, Jo’s gonna trust his instincts. It’s only a few steps to find Brian’s hip, to kiss him square on the mouth, not chaste but not passionate, and hum, “Yeah, I watched. You both were great. Like always.” 

Brian purrs and nestles his head on Jo’s shoulder comfortably, exposes his throat. Jo sees, smirks, grabs Brian’s hair by the crown, yanks his head over to the side to examine the trail of _violent_ hickies all up his pale long neck. 

“Hah! What have we here.” 

“It’s not my fault!” Brian squeaks, and Patrick blushes, and Jonah hides his grin. Okay, Brian does know what he’s doing. This is gonna go just fine. “Pat did it. Be mad at _him_.” 

“You _let_ him do it, Brian,” Jonah scolds. “It’s not his fault if you goaded him into it.”

“Nuh- _uh_ ,” Brian whines and grinds his hips up into Jonah’s grasp, horny but not rubbing anything, not lewd. He’s testing the waters maybe, showing Pat what he could get into, if he should so choose “He just _did it_.” 

“You can’t flirt like that and not expect people to want to fuck you,” Jonah says, sliding Brian’s fly open carefully while watching Pat’s face. The guy’s pretty goddamn stoic, but doesn’t look freaked. “I did watch the stream. You were absolutely a wreck. It’s a miracle Patrick didn’t—” he breaks off. “Brian, why are you all damp.” 

Brian doesn’t blush, not really, but he dips his chin and hunches up and it’s just as good. “I was bad,” he says softly. 

“Are you gonna blame this one on Pat, too?” 

Brian’s quiet _no_ is interrupted by Patrick’s interjection. “I’d say that one is fifty-fifty.” 

Ooh, a thrill runs up Jonah’s chest at that soft rumbling voice. Maybe he’s going to _play._

“Very kind of you, Pat,” he looks over Brian’s shoulder at the dark beauty in the kitchen. “I know Brian already…he probably...you probably had an idea of where tonight is going. Just let me know what you’re comfortable with. I can head to my room and leave you to it. Or I can stick around.” 

“It’s your house,” Patrick says, face fairly unreadable. 

“You’re the one he’s been teasing all night,” Jonah says, holding Brian out at arms’ length by the hair. Bri’s biting his lip at the pressure but not fighting, not really. “You should do whatever you like.” 

“I’d like…” his voice breaks. “I have no fucking clue, Jonah. I’ve never done this before.” 

Jonah lets go of Brian then, because Pat’s hesitant and beautiful and maybe uncomfortable out of his mind or maybe just wanting something he doesn’t know how to take. He’s staring at Jonah, half-tortured, half-desiring, as if the right answers are written in tiny font on Jonah’s forehead. 

Jo steps close. It’s a power move, sure, but in his opinion proximity helps in these sorts of conversations. Like, yeah, people get less articulate, and yeah it can go south, but at least it sorts everything out pretty instantly, how everyone feels. 

Pat doesn’t shy away, or recoil, doesn’t grimace or look disgusted, doesn’t hunch. He just stands, lets himself be approached, curves upward even, his spine reconfiguring to match with Jonah’s like their magnetic fields are aligned. Good. Good. 

“No biggie,” Jonah says easily, and rests one hand on Patrick’s hip. “Everyone has a first time. Is this okay?” 

“...yes.” Pat’s voice is tentative, though his body is anything but. “Shit, I forgot how tall you were.” 

“Mmhmm,” Jonah smiles smugly, from above. He’d bet Patrick’s not the short one, usually. “We’d be good dance partners. If you like getting dipped.” 

“I’ve got two left feet,” Pat says, and the eyebrow raise is somewhat spoiled by the shudder as Jonah places the other hand, holds Pat’s waist deliberately in his hands. He’s so slim. 

“Brian taught me how to dance,” Jonah admits, “so I think probably he can do the same for you.” 

The metaphor seems to strike Patrick funny, and he laughs. It’s genuine, that sudden smile, and Jonah _likes_ it. God, it’s so wide and pretty. Chaotic and sort of puppy-like, innocent mischief dropping into a pond of guarded sultryness. Cute and wicked at the same time. Brian can really pick them. 

“Can I kiss you,” Jonah says. “Or is that off the table.” 

Pat blinks at him, surprised perhaps by his directness. Jo learned it from the best. “Not off the table,” he says, carefully.

“I’m gonna need a clear yes to go for it,” Jonah pushes back. “Or I can step off. I can also stop touching you, if you like.” 

This Patrick Gill character is staring at him as if he has two heads. Also kind of like he wants to make out with both of them. It’s a good look, uncertain but a little wanton. “Yes,” is all he says, finally, and then clarifies. “To the kissing.”

Jonah doesn’t wait for further discussion, just presses down and gets that mouth open, starts to lean into it a bit, figure out what he’s working with here. Ooh fuck, that stubble is perfect. He can do a lot with that, on Brian’s body or anywhere else. Brian would _screech_ , he reckons, if Pat’s into rimming. Gorgeous. And god, his mouth—Jonah can’t help but imagine all the things he can do with such a nice strong flat wet tongue, a mouth wide enough to take two cocks at once, maybe— 

“You’ve been kissing Brian,” he pulls back, comments, before his mind gets too wild. It’s just a guess, ‘cause of the hickies, there’s no Sherlock Holmes deducing of mouthwash flavors going on here.

“Yeah,” Pat says jaggedly. “A bit more than kissing.” 

“He seduced you,” Jonah sighs melodramatically. “And you looked like such a nice boy _._ ”

“You put me up to it,” Brian sulks, off to the side, arms crossed impatient but standing well back. Not overwhelming Pat with two sets of hands. But not letting him feel alone, either. 

The push-pull is easy. They don’t have a routine down, exactly. But it’s not unfamiliar. This isn’t the first hot brooding softy Brian’s dragged in, not the first person Jonah’s stared at appraisingly with the twin thoughts of _fuck this one’s a cutie_ and _this man is out of his depth and maybe he likes it that way_. 

“Thank you, I suppose,” Pat murmurs uncertainly into Jonah’s gaze. “Never been seduced before, I don’t think. It’s flattering.” 

Jonah permits himself a predatory grin. “I think we can do better than _flattering_. If you want. Can I ask a few questions about what you’re game for?” 

“Please,” Pat sighs, relaxes a little under Jonah’s fingertips. “Shoot.”

“Are you lookin’ to get laid tonight?” 

Pat laughs again, another genuine one, surprise but not fear. “ _Je_ -zus, you go right for it don’t you?” 

“Sorry,” Jonah adjusts a bit, slides a hand up Pat’s side and finds his shoulder. “I should be more polite. I was just checking. Like, I figured y’all came here to fuck, but maybe you’ve already…?” 

“No, no,” Patrick says, tone a little guilty. “Not yet. But um. That was the plan, yeah.”

Brian orbits. “He said he wanted to fuck the dickens out of me.” 

“Cute,” Jonah quirks a grin. “Gonna assume you’re a top, then.” 

“Vers,” Pat corrects. “But I don’t know if I want to, um. Explore that this evening.” 

“Gotcha, for sure,” Jo nods, though he lets himself indulge the urge to slide his hand up further, to trail it in Pat’s hair. God, he’s been wanting to touch that hair. It’s so _pretty_. He doesn’t grip it, even though he bets Pat likes it pulled, he was watching last week’s stream, when Brian touched it and Pat’s face went all funny. It’s going funny just like that, right now. 

Pat flutters closed his eyes and breathes. “I can see why you and Brian get along,” he murmurs. 

“Hmm?” Jo prompts, pets. 

“As soon as something’s out of my mouth I’m reconsidering,” he says, deliberately, though his eyes are still closed. “He does that too. Are you both witches.” 

Jonah takes this as an invitation to grip a little, at the back of Pat’s head, to grip and twist and see how that catches his fancy. Oh gosh, Patrick responds _delightfully_ , a little resistance and a little give, his face changes to something significantly less premeditated, and it’s quiet, just a breath but it sounds a lot like he just said _fuck_ on an inhale. 

“You like that,” Jonah grins, not really a question, and tweaks a bit, squeezes the hand on Pat’s hip. 

“Mmmhmm,” Pat murmurs shyly, like it’s a bit of a wrench to admit it, but he can’t help humming in contentment anyway. Flirty, it’s a little flirty. In an understated way. 

Jonah’s pulse taps out _fuck it_ on the inside of his skull and he gives Pat a bit of a push. The slender body goes where he leads it, without protesting. Another half-step, or two, and Patrick’s back is tucked up against the door and his eyes are still closed and he’s tight in Jonah’s grip. Jo kisses him again, then, a longer slower kiss, like he’s got time to spare. Pat’s thin limbs move only a little, just to wrap around his back. Mostly the body under him is still. Receptive. Jonah keeps Pat’s head where he wants it, until he’s done. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Pat breathes again, as soon as he’s allowed, and pulls open his eyes. “I—” he swallows. “You’re really something. And you’re fucking _tall_.” 

“He’s good at making you feel small,” Brian puts in. Jo glances over. Bri’s _literally_ leaning on his elbows, watching them like they’re a TV soap opera. “He can do that for you. If you’re into that.” 

“I see.” He hesitates. Jonah’s fairly sure Pat’s into that, given the right circumstances, but these might not be them. “Um, if it’s okay—I’d like to—instead—” He stops, and breathes, and twists a bit out of Jonah’s grip, and tries again. “Can we go back to the questions.” 

He sounds just a little vulnerable, which is frickin’ fair, he’s pinned up against the wall right now. Jonah lets go, steps back, embarrassed, and ducks his head. Fuck. He didn’t mean to— 

“Sorry, sorry,” he grunts out, running his hand from the back to the front of his head. “Seriously got carried away. My bad. I’m an asshole.” 

“Join the club,” Pat snorts, and when Jonah looks up he jerks his chin in Brian’s direction. “I can hardly blame you for getting worked up. I think it might just happen, around him.” 

“Hah!” Jonah grins sheepishly. “Good point. Okay, but seriously. I’ll just dip so you guys can fuck, if you want. Or if you…can I watch?” 

“Sure.” This time, the smile is easier, calmer, the ice most thoroughly broken, if inelegantly. It’s Pat that touches Jonah this time, just on the arm, sincere and long-fingered and lovely. “Watch if you want. Or uh, touch. If you like. I might like that.” 

Brian’s bouncing on his heels, excited to be the topic of conversation again. “We talked a little, Jo. On the walk. About, like, different things we do.” 

No wonder Pat wandered in looking like a teenager who’s snuck into his first strip club. “Oh good. And uh…you have any requests? Or big no-nos?”

“I told him,” Brian’s moving close now, shoving himself close, getting a hand on Pat first. “That like. You like to give instructions. Hints. That you might wanna touch me, or hold me down for him. Or fuck with me, while he’s getting ready. No bondage though. And no hitting.” 

“I’m, uh,” Pat grimaces nervously. “I’m not averse to those in principle. I just thought’d be…a lot...for me to jump into. I’m like, into it in theory, no idea in practice, yknow?” 

“Gotcha, gotcha,” Jonah grins, but draws back a bit from them. “So like, do you two wanna _fuck_ , or do you wanna _scene?_ ‘Cause it’s fine to keep it vanilla, too. _”_

“Pat’s good at improv though,” Brian purrs, demonic enabler that he is. He’s sliding his hands up under Patrick’s shirt, raking his fingertips along the ribs and wrapping him in an embrace that looks feverishly distracting. “We were basically scening at work. I dunno if he’s done it before, or if he’s just a natural. It was _hot_ , Jo. He’s good at topping me. He made me an absolute wreck. He _stripped_ me.” 

“Like, naked?” 

“Mmmhmm.” Brian hums wickedly, as he’s rucking Pat’s shirt up and nosing up his chest. “After I came in my pants. Grinding on him.” 

Pat’s given up on decorum, now, and is just getting a hand around Brian’s body, pulling him close, letting their skin press against each other, hot and eager as Brian fucks with his shirt. He’s giving as good as he gets, though, getting Bri undressed one-handed while the other roams, while his mouth pushes into the crease of Brian’s neck over the trail of hickeys. 

“He made me keep my hands on the wall,” Brian sighs, feathery breath leaking into the words. “Above my head. The whole time.” 

“Was he punishing you,” Jonah asks, lowly, and maybe Pat reacts to that because Brian squeaks as if he’s been bitten. 

“No, he was b-being nice. Cleaning me up. Helping me with my—my mess.” 

“Did you thank him?” 

“Uh-huh,” Brian moans. His eyes are closed, now, and his shirt is off, and Pat’s laying into him with languid sucking kisses. They’re gonna need to take this horizontal soon, these two, or else Brian’s gonna do that thing where he buckles his knees unexpectedly and surprise-trust-falls you both to the floor. 

“ _How’d_ you thank him,” Jonah prods, trying to keep his voice smooth and not too breathless. 

“By, um, saying thank you very much?” Brian peeks an eye open and grins over Pat’s shoulder impishly, as if to say _uh huh good now you’re finally catching on._

Jonah huffs a heavy breath. “Brian. You came in your pants and you didn’t even get him off?”

“He didn’t let meeeee,” Brian whines, at the same time Pat growls _not yet._

“You better fucking make this up to him,” Jonah scolds, keeps his voice low and rough. “And not on the kitchen floor. He’s been dealing with your bullshit all night. Let him sit down before you get on your knees.”

“To the bedroom!” Brian announces, and then giggles and jerks away, hand-in-hand with Pat. 

Jonah rolls his eyes and steps behind them. “If you giggle like that it really fucks my whole _sultry-angry-controlling-dom_ vibe, Brian.” 

“You were doing great,” Pat gives a wry smile over his shoulder, as he’s pulled along, a little sardonic and a little kind. “Totally sold me. Very scary.” 

“Thanks a lot,” Jonah scowls, and shuts the door behind them.

* * *

Once they’re inside, Brian dances away from Pat, slings himself over Jonah artlessly, offers no support for his own damn legs. He has to be held, needy thing, to stay upright. 

It’s pretty, how rapt Pat’s attention is—Jonah can’t help but kiss down into Brian’s mouth, suck at his lips and grope him hard enough to make him moan. He indulges for a few theatrical seconds only. This isn’t supposed to be about _him_.

“D’you want to kiss him, Pat?” Jonah offers, rests his chin on Brian’s head and lets his breath flutter the puff of hair. The body in his arms is wriggling and making pleased sounds but Jonah ignores them, looks only for Patrick’s nod. Once he gets it, he reaches across, one arm flips Brian around and holds him firm across the chest, the other fishing for his wrists. 

There’s a sound Brian makes—Jonah would classify it as a _slutty whimper_ —when he’s being pinned. The more securely, the better. Really get your hands on him, get something naughty in him, and it twists out an animal sound of fear and need. It’d be a wail, maybe, if it weren’t stifled thin, drawn out through his lips and nose to be breathy and begging. 

That sound goes straight to Jonah’s dick, makes his fingertips dig harder, his weight shift, his grip tighten. It can quite undo him even when they’re not touching at all—Brian can mimic it at will, you see—and then Jonah’s stuck grinding his teeth and gripping his thighs, and waiting for a moment when he can get Brian alone and scold him for what a little shit he is. It’s embarrassing, how quick it gets to him. 

So it’s gratifying when Pat stirs too, when it lights something in his gaze that catches and burns. 

He’s gentle in approach, though eager. Steps up to take Brian’s head in his hands, to kiss down into him sweetly. It’s like a romance novel, that kiss, big palms on rosy cheeks and Pat’s dark lustrous hair. Brian _swoons_ like a blushing maiden and Jonah feels his weight. 

God, they’re so close he can feel their breathing—

something impatient thrums in him. He wants this to _move_. 

“Bed, yeah?” Jonah interrupts, a question more than a command, though he pushes Brian from behind with hands on both his hips, sees them both sway at his touch. 

Pat breaks away and surfaces enough to ask. “Should I…?” while thumbing at his pants. 

“Well, if you want anything fun to happen,” Jonah grins. He strips Brian with sure fingers, ponders whether this dynamic will hold. Whether Pat’s really gonna keep— 

asking him _permission_ —that’d be—

 _fuck._ Good. Pat, exactly as unclothed as he’s been told, doing whatever Jonah asks to take Brian apart. Trusting Jonah’s judgment, his experience. If that’s the way this goes—

Patrick’s on the bed already, on his knees, looking keenly at Brian’s naked body, how he’s letting Jonah take his elbow to angle him open and exposed. Pat’s breathing hard enough that Jo can see the rise and fall in his thin chest, even though his t-shirt is still on. His hands are tense, kneading into his thighs impatiently. Like he want to touch himself. But he’s not sure if he’s supposed to. 

Jonah feels a hopeful wave roll through him, warm and humming-wild, from his lower belly up to crackle in his chest. He breathes in and holds it for a few seconds, lungs expand, push on his chest, unfold how hard his heart is thudding. _Oh please,_ he finds himself thinking. _Please let me do this._

“What do you want him to do to you,” he mutters to Brian, to distract himself from that sudden stab of _need_. This isn’t about him.

“Anything.” Brian’s already breathy, worked up, flails against his grasp. “Oh _please_ , Jonah, please.” 

“Good boys ask for what they want,” Jonah intones, pressing against his struggling so Brian can feel the rumble in his chest. 

“I want _everything,_ ” Brian sighs out, and it’s not even a whine, not a put-upon sound for show. Just an admission. “Anything he’ll give me.” 

Pat _snarls_ at that, a sound like a low soft shout that quite surprises Jonah with its predatoriness, its impatience. And yet. Those twitching hands resist. Stay just exactly where they are. 

This Patrick Gill is an interesting character. Jonah wonders if he just leaves the silence long enough… 

“ _May I_ —” Pat breaks in, strangled, reaching— 

_oh joy_ — 

Jonah laughs in savage delight and pushes Brian stumbling to the bed. 

“Of course. Try out his mouth first. I’ll get him ready for you.”

* * *

For all that macho talk, they don’t dive right into it, however their growly threats make Brian buck with delight. Brian likes to _fantasize_ about quick and careless use—but what he _wants_ is a thousand kisses and lavish attention like he’s a precious thing. Luckily Pat’s amenable to Jonah’s light wordless touches, the ones that say _pull back_ and _slow down_ and _just stick with this for now_ and _trust me._

So it’s all hot touch and tangled kissing first, moaning and mouthing and mapping access points, falling apart with dazed laughter when the geometry doesn’t quite fit and getting up to try again. Brian gets the worst of it (or the best of it?) pinned between them. He’s gonna be a mess of feverish hickies tomorrow, but today he’s glowing rosy-cheeked with effort and excitement. 

Jo makes Pat keep his shirt on—catches his wrist when he moves to pull it off. Pat goes with it, takes the cue without a word. Fuck, hopefully he doesn’t take it as an insult. Jo _desperately_ wants to see those fucking shoulders—touch them, maybe—or at least have Brian suck sloppily up Pat's chest when he’s exhausted and fucked-out— 

well, whatever. Something shirtless later. But Brian really loves being topped when he’s naked and Jonah’s not. It gives him those good subby feelings. It’ll probably do him twice as well, to be taken apart by both of them that way. 

Brian is radiant with delight, arms wide and gripping on to both of them, solicitous, open, whimpering with joy. He kisses Pat eagerly, stretches himself out, lets Jonah bend in and suck overtop Pat’s bruises on his throat, lets all hands roam and tug at him and squeaks whenever he’s shifted suddenly. 

“He likes this,” Pat murmurs, reverently, pulls up and looks down at him with shining eyes. 

“He’s an attention whore,” Jonah snorts against his skin. Brian turns then, captures Jonah’s mouth, maybe to shut him up. This gives Pat free reign to kiss the back of his neck, and he shudders so beautifully that it’s hard to remember how to scold. “He’s spoiled. I can’t really give him what he deserves, for tonight.” 

“Punish me laa _aaa_ ter,” Brian sing-songs. “Or just make out with me until I’m _really_ sorry.” 

“Brat,” Jonah snorts, and takes his cue. “No more. We don’t want Pat to get bored.” 

“Not likely,” Pat deadpans, pulls up to rest his lidded gaze on Jonah. It’s easy to lean over Brian for a second, to catch Pat’s mouth instead. 

To Jonah’s surprise, Pat pulls a bit, wraps a hand around Jonah's head and firmly yanks the short hair at the nape to get him closer. Jo goes willingly, lets himself sprawl over Brian beneath him, lets himself be kissed. It’s, um, frickin’ nice, Pat’s insistent pulling, and even nicer when Brian wraps an arm around his back and holds him there, in place. 

“Thanks,” Jonah breathes, when he’s released, because he is stupid. Pat chuckles lowly. Wow, he’s really—that anxious wallflowering is really peeling away, turning to something dark and sure-footed. 

And that’s about as long as Brian can stand being ignored, so he’s already wriggling between them. “How do you want me,” he says breathlessly. 

“On your belly,” Jonah says at the same time Pat mutters “On your back,” and the crosstalk unseats both of them, twists out of Jonah a nervous laugh. Patrick reddens and tucks his tongue in the side of his mouth, amused-embarrassed. 

Brian though, bless him, _mewls_ in theatrical dismay and slithers quickly down. “ _God_ please don’t tease me guys—please let me be good—I’ll be _so_ good—” 

_That_ redirects Pat tidily, and gives Jonah space to slip off the bed, find lube, maybe enjoy himself a bit.

Jonah wouldn’t say voyeurism is one of his kinks, he doesn't get off on watching just anyone fuck—but he’s _very_ into watching people fuck Brian. He’s really into watching people _anything_ Brian.

Speaking of, the devil in question is pulling Pat to his knees. He gets the taller man on all fours, worms his way up between his legs, hands tucking Pat’s ankle’s on either side of his slim hips. Brian has to grip upward, at that angle, pull himself up, work hard to get his mouth to lick up near Pat’s cock. He’ll be whining about the ab workout tomorrow, but Jonah’s a fan of this position as a rule and Bri indulges him. It's nice to stare at Brian arcing hungrily up, at Pat's slim hips and naked ass, nice to be off in the wings for a moment, to move around easily and get at whatever he wants. 

What he wants, to be clear, is to twist that plug and get Brian moaning sloppily against Pat’s dick. But he can wait. Let Brian show off his talents without distraction for a minute. Bri’s frickin’ _eager_ , that’s for sure, panting belly-shallow breaths and rucking Pat’s shirt up. 

“Too much—” Pat gasps, curls tight into a high U-shape, breathes rough against sensation. “Don’t wanna—come too fast—” Brian hums obediently, withdraws his hand from in between them. He wraps both arms around Pat’s back instead, rescinds his freedom to do anything but hold tight while Pat fucks gently into his mouth. 

Eventually, Jo circles around to press his fingers onto Brian’s ankles, offering a slight push in case he wants to kick against something. He doesn’t seem to though—he barely shifts at all—he’s straining to take more of Pat’s cock, breathing seldom in wet measured gasps, concentrating hard. Too hard. Jonah can fix that. 

* * *

Pacing the perfect threesome is tough. 

Jonah has a sort of platonic ideal involving three movements with tempo contrasts—when just he and Brian are fucking they can go the whole night through-composed, devoid of refrain or pause—but when you’re with someone new it’s better to have some recognizable structure. 

So he has it in his mind, where this is going next. Finger Brian until he’s crying in frustration, until his mouth forgets how to do anything but gag, then slide away and get a good seat as Pat shifts down, folds him up, and fucks him ‘til he screams.

 _The best-laid schemes gang aft a-gley_ though, as Brian would say in his most annoying fancy lad Scottish accent. 

So as soon as Jonah works the plug out of Brian’s ass, he’s choking wet pleas and sobs up Patrick-ward—

 _please_ , _please fuck me sir—pat—god—fuck me—please—I’ve wanted your cock so long—_

and Pat jerks up suddenly and swears— 

_fuck I’m gonna—_

and Brian’s a good dude, so he makes the most of it, wraps both arms tight around Pat’s waist and swallows him down to the hilt. 

Pat’s stream of shaky busted curses is interrupted by a moan. He comes down Brian’s throat, held too tight to buck, comes with frustrated sounds of pleasure and despair wrung out by Bri’s insistent sucking. 

“I’m—I’m s-so—” he starts, sounding wrecked, shifting weight back onto his knees—

Jonah feels the pang of it ricochet, the wicked twist of self-condemnation, and draws a breath to try and figure out how to— 

but Brian’s quicker. 

He throws his head back hard to the pillows and _wails_ “I’m sorry—I’m sorry Jonah—I c-couldn’t stop—I wanted to taste him—”

_hell yeah there we go that’s the ticket—_

“Cockslut,” Jonah bites out, sharp. “Got greedy, didn’t you?” 

“Yessir,” Brian whines back, quick as anything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I messed up— _please_ will you still let me come—please—” 

“I dunno about that. You don’t deserve it.” 

“ _Please—_ Pat please—tell him I was good—”

Pat laughs, a sort of wet self-deprecating bark. “Fuck. You two are something.” His dulcet tones cut through their fast-paced breathing, suspend their banter as he rolls onto his side next to Brian. “Thanks for trying to save my pride.” 

“Dunno what you’re talking about, Pat Gill,” Brian murmurs. “I get in trouble for how I use my mouth all the time.” 

“That’s true,” Jonah puts in, steps back a pace. “He’s _wicked._ ” 

“That I won’t argue,” Pat’s face is smiling now, still a bit wry and red but not so bad. 

“ _And_ he’s already come today,” Jonah pushes forth. “You’re well within your rights to tell him no.” 

Pat laughs at that, a real laugh, and the rest of the red-faced screwed-up-ness disperses into a more euphoric glow. “Oh I see. It’s _me_ who’s gotta be the bad guy.” 

“All you, baby,” Jonah smirks. “What’s he deserve.” 

Pat leans up on his elbow, pulls a hand through Brian’s hair. It keeps moving, stroking a few times, affectionate to the point of awe. 

“ _Please,_ ” Bri goes for his most pleading tone, the one that melts hearts the world over, and it doesn’t fail here either, draws from Pat a shuddering breath. 

“Well, Jonah,” he says, still staring at Brian as if he’s just materialized from some unearthly plane, “ _someone_ better fuck this kid. He’s been asking for it all day.” 

Brian _squeals_ with delight and gropes his sweaty fingers for Pat’s shoulders. “Oh— _really?_ —can I—can he—will you—”

“Are you sure?” Jonah breaks in, tries to sound cool and calm and not breathlessly excited. “ ‘Cause, uh, it’s all good either way.” 

“Yeah,” Pat roughs out. “I’d like it. You two are—you’re a _lot_. But I like it.” 

“Would you touch me?” Brian asks up into him. “Or hold me?” 

“ _God_ yes,” Pat says in something like relief, and grips him tight and shifts. Wow, this thin leggy limber guy is _acrobatic_ —he leans back a bit and swings his leg all the way _over_ Brian’s head, to get Bri situated snug between his legs.

Holy shit, they’re _beautiful_ like this, Bri leaning back sweaty and breathing hard, arcing into Pat, craning his ridiculous neck up for kisses. Pat curls around him, sweaty hair hanging down in both their faces, stroking his hands down Brian’s chest, brushing his stomach, long arms stroking all the way toward his thigh— 

“Get that shirt off, Patrick,” Jonah dares to order, just to see. 

Pat glances up, quirks something just shy of smile and pulls it off immediately. “Better?”

“Much,” Jonah smiles, and laughs when Brian nods so hard he nearly cracks into Pat’s jaw.

“Get on with it then,” Patrick grins, and so he does. 

* * *

It’s not the finale Jonah planned—they have to reposition several times, fuck up this and that, shove some towels around, do some strategic pillow placement, stop Brian from knocking into Pat’s chest—it’s messy and it’s goofy and it takes too long—but Bri’s _perfect,_ he’s perfect, he’s just as perfect as he’s always been and he keeps on with his thready soprano whining, begging and demanding, and really requiring a full two-man team of energy just to keep him happy. So they’re too busy to be awkward. 

They don’t come in synchrony either—no porno-perfect photo finishes here—but everybody gets theirs in the end. When Jonah finally hits his angle right, Brian comes _screeching_ into Pat’s hand—

 _holy shit you yell like a banshee,_ Pat laughed— 

and then Brian, indefatigable, locked his ankles around Jo’s waist and refused to let him pull out. 

“ _Please,_ Jo, I’m good, I’m good—keep going—” he whimpers

“I—I can’t Bri—I won’t be—quick enough for you—Jonah grunts, trying not to move too much as Brian squirms with oversensitivity. 

“ _pleaseplease_ just _please_ c’mon I can take it _please—_ ”

“You’re gonna—scare Patrick—with your crying—”

“Won’t cry— _please_ please Jo—”

“You _will,_ though,” Jonah scolds, and _fucking hell Brian just let me pull out—_

“I got him,” Pat rasps. He’s tipping up Brian’s chin, arm gripped across his chest possessively, but his dark gaze is fixed straight at Jonah. “I’ll keep him quiet for you.” He wrestles a broad long-fingered hand across his lips. Brian whimpers. 

“ _Fuck,_ Pat,” Jonah throws his head back, undone a bit by that, and lets his hips snap forward. It takes—oh, only a minute or so—a minute so ecstatic that Jonah’s ears ring—a high clear note, maybe a C#?— _fuck,_ whatever it is, it nearly blots out the noise of Brian’s stifled whimpers, of Pat’s low muted murmurs of _good boy, you’re doing so good, you take cock so beautifully, you’re incredible._

Yeah uh, Jonah’s not sure how long exactly it takes, but he knows when he comes he sees stars like a cymbal crash and after that is silence.

* * *

“You’re a fuckin’ gentleman,” Jonah sighs in gratitude at Pat, when he disentangles himself first and shuffles off to find warm washcloths and paper towels and other essentials. Brian’s fucked-out and exhausted, curled on his side in Jonah’s arms. He’s responding to questions, but not very _well_ , because he just gives a warm happy _mmmhmmm_ and doesn’t move, no matter what the question is, even if it’s _hey do you wanna get up now?_

Pat smiles, that littler smile, the one that Jonah thought was kind of shy. “No trouble.” 

Between them, they clean things up, get some shorts on Brian, fling towels into the hamper, tidy it all.

“Need anything to sleep in?” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Pat shrugs, relaxes a bit, as Jonah slips out to go clean himself up, find them some water and contact solution and other boring shit. 

Once that’s all arranged, Jo hesitates a beat, in the doorway. Brian’s curled into Pat’s chest like a koala, not sleeping but not talking either, just enjoying being held with the same intensity that he does everything else. 

“Should I uh—” he hesitates, twists the doorknob in his hands. “I’ll let you guys sleep then.” 

“Too butch for cuddles after?” Pat lifts his head just a modicum to say, a spark of teasing. 

Jonah feels his shoulders drop a lil. “Nah. But Bri’s a fuckin’ furnace to sleep with, I warn you.” 

“I believe that,” Pat murmurs. “ ‘salright if you’ve had enough. Also alright if you stay.” 

Jo hovers a moment longer, unsure. He’d—well, no matter how much he’d like to, he probably can’t sleep three-to-a-queen-bed. Still… 

“I’ll sneak out when he’s asleep?” 

“Won’t have long, I don’t think.” 

“ ‘mnot asleep,” Brian says muzzily. “You _have_ to cuddle me. I got fucked twice. I need two cuddles. That’s the law.” 

Thus summoned, Jonah slips back into the room, squeezes on his side onto the bed. To keep from falling on the ground he has to fling an arm over Brian, find purchase somewhere on Pat’s pointy hip. 

“That okay?” 

“Mmmhmm.” 

“There, Bri, you happy now?” 

“Mmmhmm!” He breathes, presses his back to Jonah’s chest. Pat’s hand is pinned between them, probably falling asleep under Brian’s weight. It’s nice, the soft skin of Brian’s back and the bony press of Pat’s knuckles. 

“Told you this would work,” Jonah mutters, kisses the back of Brian’s head. “I have the best ideas.” 

“Tha’s mean,” Brian has to stop in the middle of arguing to yawn. “My idea. I picked him.” 

The corner of Pat’s mouth twitches. “ _Picked_ me, huh.” 

Jonah grins over Brian’s head. “Not the word I’d use.” 

“Oh?” Man, this Patrick Gill has a great eyebrow raise. 

“I’d go with—” 

“Sprung,” Brian sleep-murmurs over their banter. 

“Why?” Pat asks, confused, at the same time Jonah goes “ _What_ now?” 

“Set a series of traps,” he mumbles. “And one of them sprung.” 

“Oh my god go to sleep with your puns,” Jonah groans. “You’re too tired and they suck.” 

“ ‘re great shuttup.”

“Hmmm so I guess I get to look up _sprung_ on urban dictionary tomorrow,” Pat muses idly to no one.

Jonah _laughs,_ and it wakes Brian up, and once he’s squirming awake Pat wants his arm back, and once he wrestles his wrist away then he says something snarky, and they all bicker for, like, ten more minutes before finally even the quips are exhausted and Jo can twist out of the sheets soft-footed and all of them can catch some fuckin’ sleep.


End file.
